" said Mary; "as long as we're not away
from the children more than a fortnight together I play the game.
He calls me `Manalive;' and you must write it all one word,
or he's quite flustered."

"But if men want things like that," began Diana.

"Oh, what's the good of talking about men?" cried Mary impatiently;
"why, one might as well be a lady novelist or some horrid thing.
There aren't any men. There are no such people. There's a man;
and whoever he is he's quite different."

"So there is no safety," said Diana in a low voice.

"Oh, I don't know," answered Mary, lightly enough;
"there's only two things generally true of them.
At certain curious times they're just fit to take care of us,
and they're never fit to take care of themselves."

"There is a gale getting up," said Rosamund suddenly.
"Look at those trees over there, a long way off, and the
clouds going quicker."

"I know what you're thinking about," said Mary; "and don't
you be silly fools. Don't you listen to the lady novelists.
You go down the king's highway; for God's truth, it is God's. Yes,
my dear Michael will often be extremely untidy. Arthur Inglewood
will be worse--he'll be untidy. But what else are all the trees
and clouds for, you silly kittens?"

"The clouds and trees are all waving about," said Rosamund. "There is
a storm coming, and it makes me feel quite excited, somehow. Michael is
really rather like a storm: he frightens me and makes me happy."

"Don't you be frightened," said Mary. "All over, these men
have one advantage; they are the sort that go out."

A sudden thrust of wind through the trees drifted the dying leaves along
the path, and they could hear the far-off trees roaring faintly.

"I mean," said Mary, "they are the kind that look outwards and get interested
in the world. It doesn't matter a bit whether it's arguing, or bicycling,
or breaking down the ends of the earth as poor old Innocent does. Stick to
the man who looks out of the window and tries to understand the world.
Keep clear of the man who looks in at the window and tries to understand you.
When poor old Adam had gone out gardening (Arthur will go out gardening),
the other sort came along and wormed himself in, nasty old snake."

"You agree with your aunt," said Rosamund, smiling: "no snakes
in the bedroom."

"I didn't agree with my aunt very much," replied Mary simply,
"but I think she was right to let Uncle Harry collect dragons
and griffins, so l