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There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. ‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. She had come to the end of her resources. He contrasted the lot of women in general with the lot of men, presented men as patient, self-immolating martyrs, and women as the pampered favorites of Nature. He spoke the automatic thought that entered his mind. They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had. “John,” she said, “I am afraid that I am going to make you unhappy.
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