"These fellows are so persuasive, you see. At Rotterdam last year, a man
made me buy a second-hand dentist's chair."

"Are you a dentist?" asked Zora.

"Lord, no! If I were I could have used the horrible chair."

"What did you do with it?"

"I had it packed up and despatched, carriage paid, to an imaginary person
at Singapore."

He made this announcement in his tired, gentle manner, without the flicker
of a smile. He added, reflectively--

"That sort of thing becomes expensive. Don't you find it so?"

"I would defy anybody to sell me a thing I didn't want," she replied.

"Ah, that," said he with a glance of wistful admiration, "that is because
you have red hair."

If any other strange male had talked about her hair, Zora Middlemist would
have drawn herself up in Junoesque majesty and blighted him with a glance.
She had done with men and their compliments forever. In that she prided
herself on her Amazonianism. But she could not be angry with the
inconclusive being to whom she was talking. As well resent the ingenuous
remarks of a four-year-old child.