ning subterfuge.

This loving anger of women will blaze up into flame at a thousand
quite trivial causes. It may take the form of jealousy; but it is in
reality much deeper than jealousy. It may take the form of protest
against man's stupidity, man's greed, man's vanity, man's lust, man's
thick-skinned selfishness; but it is in reality a protest against the law
of nature which makes it impossible for a woman to share this
stupidity, this vanity, this lust, this greed, and which holds her so
cruelly confined to a selfishness which is her own and quite different
from the selfishness of man.

One would only have to carry the psychological imagination of
Conrad a very little further to recognise the fact that while man is
inherently and completely satisfied with the difference between man
and woman; satisfied with it and deriving his most thrilling pleasure
from it; woman is always feverishly and frantically endeavouring to
overcome and overreach this difference, endeavouring, in fact, to
feel her way into every nerve and fibre of man's sensibility, so that
he shall have nothing left that is a secret from her. That he should
have any such secrets--that such secrets should be an inalienable and
inevitable part of his essential difference from herself--excites in her
unmitigated fury; and this is the hidden cause of those mysterious
outbursts of apparently quite irrational anger which have fallen upon
all lovers of women since the beginning of the world.

Man wishes woman to remain different from himself. It interests
him that she should be different. He loves her for being different.
His sensuality and his sentiment feed upon this difference and
delight to accentuate it. Women seem in some subtle way to resent
the division of the race into two sexes and to be always
endeavouring to get rid of this division by possessing themselves of
every thought and feeling and mood and gesture of the man they
love. And when confronted by the impassable gulf, which love itself
is incapable of bridging, a blind mad anger, like the anger of a
creative deity balked of his purpose, possesses them body and soul.

Mr. Wilson Follet in his superb brochure upon Conrad, written in a
manner so profoundly influenced by Henry James that as one reads
it one feels that Henry James himself, writing upon Conrad, could
not possibly have done better, lays great stress upon Conrad's
complicated and elaborate manner of building up his stories.

Mr. Foll