se
man he enjoys to be applauded greatly. A man likes to have his hair
rubbed gently with the finger tips. He will smile and close his eyes and
if he knew how he would purr like the cat. But, my dear, he do not like
to have his hair pulled. Zat is something for you to remember,--you and
all your determined women, as you call them."

"Of course you understand, Madame Obosky, I--and the other women,--are
thinking only of Betty Cruise in this matter."

"From what I have been told, all these men out here stayed awake half
the night thinking about her, Miss Clinton. They behave like so many
distracted fathers waiting for news from the bed-chamber. Bless their
hearts, you might think from their actions that the whole two--three
hundred of them consider themselves the consolidated father of zat
single infant."

"I must be getting back to my work," said Ruth abruptly. Her eyes were
shining, her voice was soft and strangely thick. "But," she went on
bravely, after clearing her throat, "we intend to fight it out with
them, just the same, Madame Obosky."

Olga went to the door with her.

"You mean, you intend to fight it out with Mr. Percivail,--you yourself,
eh?"

"It is not a personal matter with me, let me remind you once more. He
is their leader. He dominates them. He is the force that holds them
together. That's all."

"And you would render that force impotent, eh? I see. How wise you women
are!"

Ruth stopped short, struck by the remark. "Say that again, please."

Olga repeated the words slowly, significantly, and added: "They might
have a worse leader, Miss Clinton."

At another time, Ruth Clinton would have been deeply impressed by the
underlying significance of the Russian's words. But she was at the mercy
of a stubborn, rebellious pride. She chose to ignore the warning that
lay in Obosky's remark. She felt herself beaten, and she was defiant. It
was too late to hark now to the mild, temperate voice of reason.

Something rankled deep down in her soul, something she was ashamed to
acknowledge even to herself. It was the disagreeable conviction that
Percival ascribed her activities to nothing more stable than feminine
perversity,--in fact, she had the uncomfortable feeling that he even
went so far as to attribute them to spitefulness. Something in his voice
and manner, as he left her that morning, suggested the kindly chiding of
a wilful child. Well, he should see!

"I don't care what it all comes to, Madame