woman is an anomaly, fit only for literary circles and to be admired at a
distance.

It is of no use to advise Rachel to curb her tongue. So tender-hearted
that the sight of an animal in pain makes her faint; so humble-minded that
she cannot bear to receive an apology, but, no matter what has been the
offence, cuts it off short and hastens to accept it before it is uttered,
with the generous assurance that she, too, has been to blame; yet she
wounds cruelly, but unconsciously, with her tongue, which cleaves like a
knife, and holds up your dearest, most private foibles on stilettos of wit
for the public to mock at. Not that she is personal in her allusions, but
her thorough knowledge of the philosophy of human nature and the deep,
secret springs of human action lead her to witty, satirical
generalizations, which are so painfully true that each one of her hearers
goes home hugging a personal affront, while poor Rachel never dreams of
lacerated feelings until she meets averted faces or hears a whisper of
her heinous sin. This grieves her wofully, but leaves her with no mode of
redress, for who dare offer balm to wounded vanity? I believe her when she
says she "never wilfully planted a thorn in any human breast."

She scarcely had entered before I saw that she had something on her mind.
And it was not long before she began to confide, but in an impersonal way.

There is something which makes you hold your breath before you enter the
inner nature of some one who has extraordinary depth. You feel as if you
were going to find something different and interesting, and possibly
difficult or explosive. It is dark, too, yet you feel impelled to enter.
It is like going into a cave.

Most people are afraid of Rachel. Sometimes I am. But it is the alluring,
hysterical fear which makes a child say, "Scare me again."

Imagine such a girl in love. Rachel is in love. She would not say with
whom--naturally. At least, naturally for Rachel. I felt rather helpless,
but as I knew that all she wanted was an intelligent sympathizer, not
verbal assistance, I was willing to blunder a little. I knew she would
speedily set me right.

"You are too clever to marry," I said at a hazard.

"That is one of the most popular of fallacies," she answered me
crushingly. "Why can't clever women marry, and make just as good wives as
the others? Why can't a woman bend her cleverness to see that her house is
in order, and her dinners well cooked, and butto