success, what then? Say she had four or five hundred a year
at thirty and retired into the country or went to America. What use
would she be to herself or to anybody if she had learned exclusively to
bide her time and to strike for her own advantage? Life was a contest
for the poor and for the rich alike; but the first had to fight to win
and to use any means, fair or foul, while the latter could accept
knightly rules, be magnanimous when victorious, graceful when defeated.

'Yes,' said Victoria, 'I must keep myself in trim. It's all very well to
win and I've got to be as hard as nails to men, but . . .'

She stopped abruptly. The problem had solved itself. 'Hard as nails to
men,' did not include women, for 'men' seldom means mankind when the
talk is of rights. She did not know what her mission might be. Perhaps,
after she had succeeded, she would travel all over Europe, perhaps
settle on the English downs where the west winds blow, perhaps even be
the pioneer of a great sex revolt; but whatever she did, if her triumph
was not to be sterile, she would need sympathy, the capacity to love.
Thus she amended her articles of war: 'Woman shall be spared, and I
shall remember that, as a member of a sex fighting another sex, I must
understand and love my sister warrior.'

It was in pursuance of her new policy that, on her way to the Vesuvius,
Victoria dawdled for a moment at the entrance of Swallow Street, under
its portico. A few yards beyond her stood a woman whom she knew by sight
as having established practically a proprietary right to her beat. She
was a dark girl, good-looking enough, well set up in her close fitting
white linen blouse, drawn tight to set off her swelling bust. In the dim
light Victoria could see that her face was rather worn, and that the
ravages of time had been clumsily repaired. The girl looked at her
curiously at first; then angrily, evidently disliking the appearance of
what might be a dangerous rival in her own preserves. Victoria walked up
and down on the pavement. The girl watched her every footstep. Once she
made as if to speak to her. It was ghostly, for passers-by in Regent
Street came to and fro beyond the portico like arabesques. A passing
policeman gave the girl a meaning look. She tossed her head and walked
away down Regent Street, while Victoria nervously continued down Swallow
Street to Piccadilly.

These two women were to meet, however. About a week later, Victoria,
happening to pass