He confided that to me a few days ago. Ugh! Some men ought to he killed."
"What happened then?"
"He posed as the horror of horrors--a misunderstood man. Heaven knows the
femme incomprise is sad enough and had enough--but the other thing!"
"And so fat too! I should have laughed in his face. Men seldom confide in me.
How is it they come to you?"
"For the sake of impressing me with their careers in the past. Protect me from
men with confidences!"
"And yet you encourage them?"
"What can I do? They talk. I listen, and they vow that I am sympathetic. I
know I always profess astonishment even when the plot is--of the most old
possible."
"Yes. Men are so unblushingly explicit if they are once allowed to talk,
whereas women's confidences are full of reservations and fibs, except"--
"When they go mad and babble of the Unutterabilities after a week's
acquaintance. Really, if you come to consider, we know a great deal more of
men than of our own sex."
"And the extraordinary thing is that men will never believe it. They say we
are trying to hide something."
"They are generally doing that on their own account. Alas! These chocolates
pall upon me, and I haven't eaten more than a dozen. I think I shall go to
sleep.
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