The Solitary Summer

"It is," he assented, as he heard the rain beating against the windows. "And have I invited any one here?" "No, but there were all those officers." "They have nothing whatever to do with it." "They helped you through one fortnight." "They didn't. It was a fortnight of horror." "Well. Go on." "You said I would be punished by being dull. Have I been dull?" "My dear, as though if you had been you would ever confess it." "That's true. But as a matter of fact let me tell you that I never spent a happier summer." He merely looked at me out of the corners of his eyes. "If I remember rightly," he said, after a pause, "your chief reason for wishing to be solitary was that your soul might have time to grow. May I ask if it did?" "Not a bit." He laughed, and, getting up, came and stood by my side before the fire. "At least you are honest," he said, drawing my hand through his arm. "It is an estimable virtue." "And strangely rare in woman." "Now leave woman alone. I have discovered you know nothing really of her at all. But I know all about her." "You do? My dear, one woman can never judge the others." "An exploded tradition, dear Sage." "Her opinions are necessarily biassed." "Venerable nonsense, dear Sage." "Because women are each other's natural enemies." "Obsolete jargon, dear Sage." "Well, what do you make of her?" "Why, that she's a DEAR, and that you ought to be very happy and thankful to have got one of her always with you."