Gilbert. On the third morning Dorothy was surprised, emerging from her
room, to see Katherine standing by the table, a black book in her
hand. On the table lay a large package from New York, recently opened,
displaying a number of volumes in what might be termed serious
binding, leather or cloth, but none showing that high coloring which
distinguishes the output of American fiction.
"Good-morning, Dorothy. The early bird is after the worm of science."
She held forth the volume in her hand. "Steele's 'Fourteen-Weeks'
Course in Chemistry,' an old book, but fascinatingly written.
Dorothy," she continued with a sigh, "I want to talk seriously with
you."
"About chemistry?" asked Dorothy.
"About men," said Katherine firmly, "and, incidentally, about women."
"An interesting subject, Kate, but you've got the wrong text-books.
You should have had a parcel of novels instead."
Dorothy seated herself, and Katherine followed her example, Steele's
"Fourteen-Weeks' Course" resting in her lap.
"Every man," began Katherine, "should have a guardian to protect him."
"From women?"
"From all things that are deceptive, and not what they seem."
"That sounds very sententious, Kate. What does it mean?"
"It means that man is a simpleton, easily taken in. He is too honest
for crafty women, who delude him shamelessly."
"Whom have you been deluding, Kate?"
"Dorothy, I am a sneak."
Dorothy laughed.
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