pacificism, he told them that their new doctrine of non-resistance
became them ill, but as even the most advanced were still women,
consistency was not to be expected--nor desired. Their pacificism,
however, when not mere affectation--servility to the fashion of the
moment--was due to an obscure fear of seeing the world depopulated of
men, or of repressed religious instinct, or apology for being females
and unable to fight. He was extremely rude.

And now this infernal woman had completely thrown him off his balance.
He could think of nothing else. His work had been deplorable--the last
week at all events--and although a month since nothing would have given
him more exquisite satisfaction than to write a paper on the authentic
drama, he would now be quite indifferent if censorship had closed every
theatre on Broadway. Such an ass, such a cursed ass had he become in
one short month. He had tramped half the nights and a good part of
every day trying to interest himself by the wayside and clear his
brain. He might as well have sat by his fire and read a piffling novel.

Nevertheless, until Gora Dwight had brought her detached analytical
faculty to bear on his case, he had not admitted to himself that he was
in love with the woman. He had chosen to believe that, being unique
and compact of mystery, she had hypnotized his interest and awakened
all the latent chivalry of his nature--something the modern woman
called upon precious seldom. He had felt the romantic knight ready to
break a lance--a dozen if necessary--in case the world rose against
her, denounced her as an impostor. True, she seemed more than able to
take care of herself, but she was very beautiful, very blonde, very
unprotected, and in that wistful second youth he most admired. He had
thought himself the chivalrous son of chivalrous Southerners, excited
and not too happy, but convinced, at the height of his restlessness and
absorption, that she was but a romantic and passing episode in his life.

When Gora Dwight had ruthlessly led him into those unconsciously
guarded secret chambers of his soul and bidden him behold and ponder,
he had turned as cold as if ice-water were running in his veins,
although he had continued to smile indulgently and had answered with
some approach to jocularity. He was floored at last. He'd got the
infernal disease in its most virulent form. Not a doubt of it. No
wonder he had deluded himself. His ideal woman--whom, pre