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 to you all. If, however, you want me to get down to something fundamental, I’ll tell you that she confirms a theory I have always had that— But I won’t go into that. It’s our last night together and we”

“No; go on. This interests me enormously, especially her personality. We’ll have our nightcap later on.”

“Well, all right,” and he squared himself toward Herbert. “She confirms, as I said, a theory of mine—one I have always had, that the Great Art—that for which the world is waiting—is not so much the creation of statues, if you will pardon me, as the creation of a better understanding of women by men. Not of their personalities, but of their impersonalities. Most women are afraid to let themselves go, not knowing how we will take them, and because of this fear we lose the best part of a woman’s nature. She dares not do a great many generous things—sane, kindly, human things—because she is in dread of being misunderstood. She is even afraid to love some of us as intensely as she would. Madame dares everything and could never be misunderstood. All doubts of her were swept out in her opening sentence the night she arrived. She ought to found a school