xistence to him. But if she is wholly a woman, she
cannot give him her confidence.

She cannot, because she dares not.

In the same way a man--for a certain length of time--can love without
measure. He can then be unlocked like a cabinet full of secret drawers
and pigeonholes, of which we hold the keys. He discloses himself, his
present and his past. A woman, even in the closest bonds of love, never
reveals more of herself than reason demands.

Her modesty differs entirely from that of a male. She would rather be
guilty of incest than reveal to a man the hidden thoughts which
sometimes, without the least scruple, she will confide to another woman.
Friendship between men is a very different thing. Something honest and
frank, from which consequently they withdraw without anger, mutual
obligation, or fear. Friendship between women is a kind of masonic oath;
the breaking of it a mutual crime. When two women friends quarrel, they
generally continue to carry deadly weapons against each other, which
they are only restrained from using by mutual fear.

There _are_ honest women. At least we believe there are. It is a
necessary part of our belief. Who does not think well of mother or
sister? But who _believes entirely_ in a mother or a sister? Absolutely
and unconditionally? Who has never caught mother or sister in a
falsehood or a subterfuge? Who has not sometimes seen in the heart of
mother or sister, as by a lightning flash, an abyss which the
profoundest love cannot bridge over?

Who has ever really understood his mother or sister?

The human being dwells and moves alone. Each woman dwells in her own
planet formed of centrifugal fires enveloped in a thin crust of earth.
And as each star runs its eternal course through space, isolated amid
countless myriads of other stars, so each woman goes her solitary way
through life.

It would be better for her if she walked barefoot over red-hot
ploughshares, for the pain she would suffer would be slight indeed
compared to that which she must feel when, with a smile on her lips, she
leaves her own youth behind and enters the regions of despair we call
"growing old," and "old age...."

All this philosophizing is the result, no doubt, of having eaten
halibut for lunch; it is a solid fish and difficult to digest.

Perhaps, too, having no company but Jeanne and Torp, I am reduced to my
own aimless reflections.

Just as clothes exercise no influence on the majority of men, so thei