"One is safe--with some men."
"Not with a woman?"
"No woman is safe in any confidence to any other woman. All women are more
or less bad at heart."
"I do not believe that as you say it."
"Of course you do not--as I say it. But you know what I mean. Women are
creatures of impulse, except those who live mechanically and have lost
everything. They become like priests then."
"Like some priests. Yet, with all respect, it is not a confessional I
would choose, except the woman was my mother."
There was silence for a moment, and then she abruptly said: "I know you
wish to speak of that incident, and you hesitate. You need not. Yet this
is all I can tell you. Whoever the man was he came from Tellaire, the
place where I was born."
She paused. He did not look, but he felt that she was moved. He was
curious as to human emotions, but not where this woman was concerned.
"There were a few notes in that woodcutter's chant which were added to
the traditional form by one whom I knew," she continued.
"You did not recognize the voice?"
"I cannot tell. One fancies things, and it was all twelve years ago."
"It was all twelve years ago," he repeated musingly after her. He was
eager to know, yet he would not ask.
"You are a clever artist," she said presently.
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