But he knows a mere nothing about women--their amusing inconsistencies; their infidelity in little things and fidelity in big things; their self-torturings; their inability to comprehend themselves; their periods of religious insanity; their occasional revolts against the restraints of a woman's position, known only to themselves in their dark hours; ah, really, Dr.Marmion, he is ignorant, I assure you.

He has only got two or three kinds of women in his mind, and the representatives of these fooled him, as far as he went with them, to their hearts' content.
Believe me, there is no one quite so foolish as the professional student of character.

He sees things with a glamour; he is impressionable; he immediately begins to make a woman what he wishes her to be for his book, not what she is; and women laugh at him when they read his books, or pity him if they know him personally.

I venture to say that I could make Mr.Clovelly use me in a novel--not 'A Sweet Apocalypse'-- as a placid lover of fancy bazaars and Dorcas societies, instead of a very practical person, who has seen life without the romantic eye, and knows as well the working of a buccaneering craft--through consular papers and magisterial trials, of course--as of a colonial Government House.

But it is not worth while trying to make him falsify my character.