out in peace?"

The train happened to be waiting at Clapham Junction. A spruce young man,
passing by on the platform, made a perceptible pause by the window, his
eyes full on her. She turned her head impatiently. Rattenden laughed.

"Dear lady," said he, "I must impart to you the elements of wisdom. Miss
Keziah Skaffles, with brain cordage for hair, and monoliths for teeth, and
a box of dominoes for a body, can fool about unmolested among the tribes
of Crim Tartary. She doesn't worry the Tartars. But, permit me to say it,
as you are for the moment my disciple, a beautiful woman like yourself,
radiating feminine magnetism, worries a man exceedingly. You don't let him
go about in peace, so why should he let you?"

"I think," said Zora, as the train moved on, "that Miss Keziah Skaffles is
very much to be envied, and that this is a very horrid conversation."

She was offended in her provincial-bred delicacy. It was enough to make her
regard herself with repulsion. She took up the fashion paper she had bought
at the station--was she not intending to run delicious riot among the
dressmakers and milliners of London?--and regarding blankly the ungodly
waisted ladies in the illustrations, determined to wear a wig and paint her
face yellow, and black out one of her front teeth, so that she should not
worry the Tartars.

"I am only warning you against possible dangers," said Rattenden stiffly.
He did not like his conversation to be called horrid.

"To the race of men?"

"No, to yourself."

She laughed scornfully. "No fear of that. Why does every man think himself
irresistible?"

"Because he generally is--if he wants to be," said the Literary Man from
London.

Zora caught her breath. "Well of all--" she began.

"Yes, I know what you're going to say. Millions of women have said it and
eaten their words. Why should you--beautiful as you are--be an exception to
the law of life? You're going out to suck the honey of the world, and
men's hearts will be your flowers. Instinct will drive you. You won't be
able to get away from it. You think you're going to be thrilled into
passionate raptures by cathedrals and expensive restaurants and the set
pieces of fashionable scenery. You're not. Your store of honey will consist
of emotional experiences of a primitive order. If not, I know nothing at
all about women."

"Do you know anything about them?" she asked sweetly.

"More than would be becoming of me to tell," he replied. "Anyh