“She said, ‘Don’t get thinking Gabriel’s a brute because he doesn’t always understand the way you feel.’ That’s sound advice, my dear. Men want a lot, and the best way is to let ’em have it, as much as you can. It’s easier then to get your own way when you want it.” She paused, and her smile grew. “And don’t forget to let him think it’s his way. It doesn’t matter to us whether we seem to be ruling or not, as long as we are, but it does matter to a man. He’s a pernickety, difficult creature, and it doesn’t do to let him see who’s cock of the walk. Let him think he is, and the bigger he talks, the smaller he acts. Let him talk. He likes it, and it makes him feel good. You see, a man’s got to feel good and masterful, or he’s only half a man.”

Elizabeth folded her hands over the basket. Gravely she looked at Mrs. Gabriel.

“You know an awful lot,” she said.

“I ought to. I’ve reared a husband and three boys, and that’s enough for any woman. They’ve all leaned on me till it’s a wonder I’m not worn to a skeleton!”

Elizabeth laughed.

“No, I’m still fat, thank goodness. People used to talk to me about woman leaning on man. My goodness, you soon find out who does the leaning! A man needs propping up more times than you can count, the great, helpless zany! When things go wrong a man turns to his wife, and it’s her job to bolster him up a bit, and keep cheerful. He don’t bear troubles in silence: he tells ’em to his wife, like when his little finger aches. Leastways, he does if his wife’s a good one. We keep most of our troubles to ourselves, because a man wouldn’t understand, though he’d try hard, bless him! And that’s another thing, my dear! All through your life you’ve got to listen to your man’s upsets, but don’t you worrit him with yours. He’ll soon get tired of it, and you’ll most likely lose him.”

“That’s one-sided, too,” Elizabeth said.

“In a way, my dear. Still, most women want to hear their man’s troubles. They coax ’em out of him; he likes it better that way. It’s the motherly feeling I told you about. You want to be always running behind to pick him up when he falls down, and start him off again.”

“That’s what I didn’t do,” Elizabeth said slowly. When

Stephen had torn up his work in exasperation she had done nothing to start him off again. She had felt that she didn’t know enough about writing novels. She saw now how little that mattered.