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?"