a-brewing.

"To how many women, Sir John, have you lost your heart, and at various
times how many have lost their hearts to you?" asked the persistent
girl.--"What a senseless question," returned John. "A dozen times or more;
perhaps a score or two score times. I cannot tell the exact number. I did
not keep an account."

Dorothy did not know whether she wanted to weep or be angry. Pique and a
flash of temper, however, saved her from tears, and she said, "You are so
brave and handsome that you must have found it a very easy task--much
easier than it would be for me--to convince those confiding ones of your
affection?"

"Yes," replied John, plunging full sail upon the breakers, "I admit that
usually they have been quite easy to convince. I am naturally bold, and I
suppose that perhaps--that is, I may possibly have a persuasive trick
about me."

Shades of good men who have blundered into ruin over the path of petty
vanity, save this man! But no, Dorothy must drink the bitter cup of
knowledge to the dregs.

"And you have been false to all of these women? she said.

"Ah, well, you know--the devil take it! A man can't be true to a score of
women," replied John.

"I am sure none of them wished you to be true," the girl answered,
restraining her tears with great difficulty.

At that point in the conversation John began to suspect from the manner
and shapeliness of his companion that a woman had disguised herself in
man's attire. Yet it did not once occur to him that Dorothy's fair form
was concealed within the disguise. He attempted to lift my soft beaver
hat, the broad rim of which hid Dorothy's face, but to that she made a
decided objection, and John continued: "By my soul I believe you are a
woman. Your walk"--Dorothy thought she had been swaggering like a
veritable swash-buckler--"your voice, the curves of your form, all betray
you." Dorothy gathered the cloak closely about her.

"I would know more of you," said John, and he stepped toward the now
interesting stranger. But she drew away from him, and told him to keep
hands off.

"Oh, I am right. You are a woman," said John.

Dorothy had maintained the disguise longer than she wished, and was
willing that John should discover her identity. At first it had been rare
sport to dupe him; but the latter part of her conversation had given her
no pleasure. She was angry, jealous, and hurt by what she had learned.

"Yes," she answered, "I admit that I am a--a woman. N