y what people call a peculiarity in me. I have no
fear of men, as such, nor of their books. I have mixed with them--one
or two of them particularly--almost as one of their own sex. I mean
I have not felt about them as most women are taught to feel--to be on
their guard against attacks on their virtue; for no average man--no
man short of a sensual savage--will molest a woman by day or night,
at home or abroad, unless she invites him. Until she says by a look
'Come on' he is always afraid to, and if you never say it, or look
it, he never comes. However, what I was going to say is that when I
was eighteen I formed a friendly intimacy with an undergraduate at
Christminster, and he taught me a great deal, and lent me books which
I should never have got hold of otherwise."

"Is your friendship broken off?"

"Oh yes. He died, poor fellow, two or three years after he had taken
his degree and left Christminster."

"You saw a good deal of him, I suppose?"

"Yes. We used to go about together--on walking tours, reading tours,
and things of that sort--like two men almost. He asked me to live
with him, and I agreed to by letter. But when I joined him in London
I found he meant a different thing from what I meant. He wanted me
to be his mistress, in fact, but I wasn't in love with him--and on
my saying I should go away if he didn't agree to MY plan, he did
so. We shared a sitting-room for fifteen months; and he became a
leader-writer for one of the great London dailies; till he was taken
ill, and had to go abroad. He said I was breaking his heart by
holding out against him so long at such close quarters; he could
never have believed it of woman. I might play that game once too
often, he said. He came home merely to die. His death caused a
terrible remorse in me for my cruelty--though I hope he died of
consumption and not of me entirely. I went down to Sandbourne
to his funeral, and was his only mourner. He left me a little
money--because I broke his heart, I suppose. That's how men
are--so much better than women!"

"Good heavens!--what did you do then?"

"Ah--now you are angry with me!" she said, a contralto note of
tragedy coming suddenly into her silvery voice. "I wouldn't have
told you if I had known!"

"No, I am not. Tell me all."

"Well, I invested his money, poor fellow, in a bubble scheme, and
lost it. I lived about London by myself for some time, and then I
returned to Christminster, as my father