y's thoughts went forward and back. Her
father's question, that had succeeded in being both pointed and
pointless, returned. She smiled at it. It would take another Don Juan
than Mozart's to entice me, she serenely reflected. Yet, after all,
would he have to be so remarkable? At any rate he would have to be fancy
free and not engaged as was a certain person who had not so much as said
Boo!

Cassy coloured. Always corsetless, she was not straight-laced. Given the
attraction and with it the incentive, and that tam-o'-shanter might have
gone flying over the windmill. The tam was very safe. There was no
incentive and, though there was no moral corset either, she was
temperamentally unable to go poaching on another's preserves. Barring
the chimerical, that any girl may consider and most girls do, she was
straight as a string. A shabby old man had no need to ask.

"Seventy-second!" The trainman bawled unmollifiably at her.

Cassy left a certain person there. Into her thoughts another man had
hopped. She surveyed him. He was good-looking. He was rich. These
attributes said nothing. A beautiful male--always an anomaly--never
attracts a beautiful woman. That other anomaly, a man of inherited
wealth, is disgusting to the anarchist. Cassy was a beauty and an
anarchist. She was also an aristocrat. The tattered portieres of the
House of Casa-Evora, the bedrabbled robes of the marquisate, all that
was ridiculous to her. She was an aristocrat none the less. She had a
high disdain for low things. In the kitchen, which she called the
kitchy, she bent her back but not her head. Her head was unbowed. She
sullied her hands but not her conscience. A dirty act she could not
perform. Aristocrat and anarchist, she was also an artist. With simple
things and simple people, she was simple as you please. Stupidity and
pretentiousness enraged her. The philistine and the ignoble she loathed.

Now, through the windows of her soul, she surveyed him. His looks, his
money, said nothing. On the other hand there was about him an aroma that
appealed. The aroma was not the odour that local society exhales. At
that Cassy's nose was in the air. A lot of nobodies occupied with
nothing--and talking about it! Such was her opinion of the gilded gang,
an opinion which Paliser--to do him the justice that the historian
should--would have had put to music and arranged for trumpets. It was
not that, therefore. The aroma was more fetching. The man talked her
langua