o last. Formidable creature! An extraordinary achievement if true.
But was it? Women, no matter how beautiful, wealthy, highly placed
and powerfully organized, got the worst of it one way or another. When
they fell in love they were apt to lose their heads, and with that the
game. Technique crumbled. For a moment he imagined her in love,
dissolved, helpless; then hastily changed the subject. He liked women
to be strong--having long since abandoned his earlier ideal of the
supine adorant--but not too strong. Certainly not stronger than
himself. He had met a good many "strong" women in the last twelve
years, swathed, more often than not, in disarming femininity. A man
hadn't a chance with them, man's strength as a rule being all on the
outside. Women grew up and men didn't. That was the infernal truth.

For the moment he hated all women and felt not only a cowardly but a
decidedly boyish impulse to run away. He'd like to wander . . .
wander . . . lie out in the woods and dream as he had done in his
boyhood . . . before he knew too much of life . . . reading Shelley and
munching chestnuts. . . . Then he remembered that woods were full of
snow in winter, and laughed. Well, he'd go and see Gora Dwight. She
was in Washington at the moment, but would be home on Friday. She was
a tonic. Strong if you like, but making no bones about it. No soft
feminine seductions there. She, too, had fought life and conquered, in
a way, but she showed the scars. Must have had the devil of a time.
At all events a man could spend hours in her stimulating company and
know exactly where he stood. No damned sex nonsense about her at all.
He knew barely another woman who didn't trail round to sex sooner or
later. Psychoanalysis had relieved them of whatever decent inhibitions
they might have had in the past. He hated the subject. Some day he'd
let go in his column and tell women in general what he thought of them.
Remind them that men were their superiors in this at least: they kept
sex in its proper place and were capable always of more than one idea
at a time. So was Gora Dwight. He believed he'd make a confidante of
her--to a certain extent. At all events he'd refresh his soul at that
tranquil font.

XIV

Gora Dwight, after the fashion of other successful authors, had
recently bought a house. It was in East Thirty-fifth Street, not far
from the one at present occupied by Madame Zattiany, but nearer
Lexington