"
"Snakes?" inquired Rosamund, with a slightly puzzled interest.
"Uncle Harry kept snakes, and said they loved him," replied Mary
with perfect simplicity. "Auntie let him have them in his pockets,
but not in the bedroom."
"And you--" began Diana, knitting her dark brows a little.
"Oh, I do as auntie did," 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.
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