She　was　silent。
  〃Now；　do　you　understand？〃
  〃I　understand　what　you　said。〃　　She　looked　at　him　as　she　spoke。　　He　wondered　how　he　could　have　fancied　those　lack…luster　eyes　beautiful　or　capable　of　expression。
  〃You　don't　believe　it？〃　he　asked。
  〃No；〃　said　she。　　And　suddenly　in　those　eyes；　gazing　now　into　space；　there　came　the　unutterably　melancholy　lookheavy…lidded　from　heartache；　weary…wise　from　long；　long　and　bitter；　experiences。　　Yet　she　still　looked　younggirlishly　youngbut　it　was　the　youthful　look　the　classic　Greek　sculptors　tried　to　give　their　young　goddessesthe　youth　without　beginning　or　end　younger　than　a　baby's；　older　than　the　oldest　of　the　sons　of　men。　　He　mocked　himself　for　the　fancies　this　queer　creature　inspired　in　him；　but　she　none　the　less　made　him　uneasy。
  〃You　don't　believe　it？〃　he　repeated。
  〃No；〃　she　answered　again。　　〃My　father　has　taught　mesome　things。〃
  He　drummed　impatiently　on　the　table。　　He　resented　her　impertinencefor；　like　all　men　of　clear　and　positive　｛？｝　mind；　he　regarded　contradiction　as　in　one　｛？｝　pudent；　in　another　aspect　evidence　of　the　fol｛？｝　contradictor。　　Then　he　gave　a　short　laughthe　｛？｝　ing　laugh　of　the　clever　man　who　has　tried　to　believe　his　own　sophistries　and　has　failed。　　〃Wellneither　do　I　believe　it；〃　said　he。　　〃Now；　to　get　the　thing　typewritten。〃
  She　seated　herself　at　the　machine　and　set　to　work。　As　his　mind　was　full　of　the　agreement　he　could　not　concentrate　on　anything　else。　　From　time　to　time　he　glanced　at　her。　　Then　he　gave　up　trying　to　work　and　sat　furtively　observing　her。　　What　a　quaint　little　mystery　it　was！　　There　was　in　itthat　is；　in　her　not　the　least　charm　for　him。　　But；　in　all　his　experience　with　women；　he　could　recall　no　woman　with　a　comparable　development　of　this　curious　quality　of　multiple　personalities；　showing　and　vanishing　in　swift　succession。
  There　had　been　a　time　when　woman　had　interested　him　as　a　puzzle　to　be　worked　out；　a　maze　to　be　explored；　a　temple　to　be　penetrateduntil　one　reached　the　place　where　the　priests　manipulated　the　machinery　for　the　wonders　and　miracles　to　fool　the　devotees　into　awe。　Some　men　never　get　to　this　stage；　never　realize　that　their　own　passions；　working　upon　the　universal　human　love　of　the　mysterious；　are　wholly　responsible　for　the　cult　of　woman　the　sphynx　and　the　sibyl。　　But　Norman；　beloved　of　women；　had　been　let　by　them　into　their　ultimate　secretthe　simple　humanness　of　woman；　the　｛？｝ry　of　the　oracles；　miracles；　and　wonders。　　He　｛？｝red　that　her　〃divine　intuitions〃　were　mere　｛？｝　guesses；　where　they　had　any　meaning　at　all；　that　her　eloquent　silences　were　screens　for　ignorance　or　boredomand　so　on　through　the　list　of　legends　that　prop　the　feminist　cult。
  But　this　girlthis　Miss　Hallowellhere　was　a　tangible　mysterya　mystery　of　physics；　of　chemistry。　He　sat　watching　herwatching　the　changes　as　she　bent　to　her　work；　or　relaxed；　or　puzzled　over　the　meaning　of　one　of　her　own　hesitating　stenographic　hieroglyphics　watched　her　as　the　waning　light　of　the　afternoon　varied　its　intensity　upon　her　skin。　　Why；　her　very　hair　partook　of　this　magical　quality　and　altered　its　tint；　its　degree　of　vitality　even；　in　harmony　with　the　other　changes。　。　。　。　　What　was　the　explanation？　　By　means　of　what　rare　mechanism　did　her　nerve　force　ebb　and　flow　from　moment　to　moment；　bringing　about　these　fascinating　surface　changes　in　her　body？　　Could　anything；　even　any　skin；　be　better　made　than　that　superb　skin　of　hers　that　master　work　of　delicacy　and　strength；　of　smoothness　and　color？　　How　had　it　been　possible　for　him　to　fail　to　notice　it；　when　he　was　always　looking　for　signs　of　a　good　skin　down　townand　up　town；　tooin　these　days　of　the　ravages　of　pastry　and　candy？　。　。　。　　What　long　graceful　fingers　she　hadyet　what　small　hands！　Certainly　here　was　a　peculiarity　that　persisted。　　No　absurd　though　it　seemed；　no！　　One　way　he　looked　at　those　hands；　they　were　broad　and　strong；　another　way　narrow　and　gracefully　weak。
  He　said　to　himself：　　〃The　man　who　gets　that　girl　will　have　Solomon's　wives　rolled　into　one。　　A　harem　at　the　price　of　a　wifeor　a〃　　He　left　the　thought　unfinished。　　It　seemed　an　insult　to　this　helpless　little　creature；　the　more　rather　than　the　less　cowardly　for　being　unspoken；　for；　no　doubt　her　ideas　of　propriety　were　firmly　conventional。
  〃About　done？〃　he　asked　impatiently。
  She　glanced　up。　　〃In　a　moment。　　I'm　sorry　to　be　so　slow。〃
  〃You're　not；〃　he　assured　her　truthfully。　　〃It's　my　impatience。　　Let　me　see　the　pages　you've　finished。〃
  With　them　he　was　able　to　concentrate　his　mind。　When　she　laid　the　last　page　beside　his　arm　he　was　absorbed；　did　not　look　at　her；　did　not　think　of　her。　〃Take　the　machine　away；〃　said　he　abruptly。
  He　was　leaving　for　the　day　when　he　remembered　her　again。　　He　sent　for　her。　　〃I　forgot　to　thank　you。　　It　was　good　work。　　You　will　do　well。　　All　you　need　is　practiceand　confidence。　　Especially　confidence。〃　　He　looked　at　her。　　She　seemed　frailtouchingly　frail。　〃You　are　not　strong？〃
  She　smiled；　and　in　an　instant　the　frailty　seemed　to　have　been　mere　delicacy　of　buildthe　delicacy　that　goes　with　the　strength　of　steel　wires；　or　rather　of　the　spider's　weaving　thread　which　sustains　weights　and　shocks　out　of　all　proportion　to　its　appearance。　　〃I've　never　been　ill　in　my　life；〃　said　she。　　〃Not　a　day。〃
  Again；　because　she　was　standing　before　him　in　full　view；　he　noted　the　peculiar　construction　of　her　frame　the　beautiful　lines　of　length　so　dextrously　combined　that　her　figure　as　a　whole　was　not　tall。　　He　said；　〃A　working　womanor　manneeds　health　above　all。　　Thank　you　again。〃　　And　he　nodded　a　somewhat　curt　dismissal。　When　she　glided　away　and　he　was　alone　behind　the　closed　door；　he　reflected　for　a　moment　upon　the　extraordinary　amount　of　thinkingand　the　extraordinary　kind　of　thinkinginto　which　this　poor　little　typewriter　girl　had　beguiled　him。　　He　soon　found　the　explanation　for　this　vagary　into　a　realm　so　foreign　to　a　man　of　his　high　tastes　and　ambitions。　　〃It's　because　I'm　so　in　love　with　Josephine；〃　he　decided。　　〃I've　fallen　into　the　sentimental　state　of　all　lovers。　　The　whole　sex　becomes　novel　and　interesting　and　worth　while。〃
  As　he　left　the　office；　unusually　late；　he　saw　her　still　at　workno　doubt　doing　over　again　some　bungled　piece　of　copying。　　She　had　her　normal　and　natural　look　and　airthe　atomic　little　typewriter；　unattractive　and　uninteresting。　　With　another　smile　for　his　romantic　imaginings；　he　forgot　her。　　But　when　he　reached　the　street　he　remembered　her　again。　　The　threatened　blizzard　had　changed　into　a　heavy　rain。　　The　swift　and　sudden　currents　of　air；　that　have　made　of　New　York　a　cave　of　the　winds　since　the　coming　of　the　skyscrapers；　were　darting　round　corners；　turning　umbrellas　inside　out；　tossing　women's　skirts　about　their　heads；　reducing　all　who　were　abroad　to　the　same　level　of　drenched　and　sullen　wretched…　ness。　　Norman's　limousine　was　waiting　at　the　curb。　He；　pausing　in　the　doorway；　glanced　up　and　down　the　street；　had　an　impulse　to　return　and　take　the　girl　home。　Then　he　smiled　satirically　at　himself。　　Her　lot　condemned　her　to　be　out　in　all　weathers。　　It　would　not　be　a　kindness　but　an　exhibition　of　smug　vanity　to　shelter　her　this　one　night；　also；　there　was　the　question　of　her　reputationand　the　possibility　of　turning　her　head；　perhaps　just　enough　to　cause　her　ruin。　　He　sprang　across　the　wind…swept；　rain…swept　sidewalk　and　into　the　limousine　whose　door　was　being　held　open　by　an　obsequious　attendant。　　〃Home；〃　he　said；　and　the　door　slammed。
  Usually　these　journeys　between　office　and　home　or　club　in　the　evening　gave　Norman　a　chance　for　ten　or　fifteen　minutes　of　sleep。　　He　had　discovered　that　this　brief　dropping　of　the　thread　of　consciousness　gave　him　a　wonderful　fresh　grip　upon　the　day；　enabled　him　to　work　or　play　until　late　into　the　night　without　fatigue。　But　that　evening　his　mind　was　wide　awake。　　Nor　could　he　fix　it　upon　business。　　It　would　interest　itself　only　in　the　hurrying　throngs　of　foot　passengers　and　the　ideas　they　suggested：　　Here　am　Iso　ran　his　thoughtshere　am　I；　tucked　away　comfortably　while　all　those　poor　creatures　have　to　plod　along　in　the　storm。　　I　could　afford　to　be　sick。　　They　can't。　　And　what　have　I　done　to　deserve　this　good　fortune？　　Nothing。　　Worse　than　nothing。　　If　I　had　made　my　career　along　the　lines　of　what　is　honest　and　right　and　beneficial　to　my　fellow　men；　I'd　probably　be　plugging　home　under　an　umbrella　and　to　a　pretty　poor　excuse　for　a　home。　　But　I　was　too　wise　to　do　that。　　I've　spent　this　day；　as　I　spend　all　my　days；　in　helping　the　powerful　rich　to　add　to　their　wealth　and　power；　to　add　to　the　burdens　those　poor　devils　out　there　in　the　rain　must　bear。　　And　I'm　rewarded　with　a　limousine；　and　all　the　rest　of　it。
  These　thoughts　neither　came　from　nor　produced　a　mood　of　penitence；　or　of　regret　even。　　Norman　was　simply　indulging　in　his　favorite　pastimefollowing　without　prejudice　the　leading　of　a　chain　of　pure　logic。　He　despised　self…deceivers。　　He　always　kept　himself　free　from　prejudice　and　all　its　wiles。　　He　took　life　as　he　found　it；　but　he　did　not　excuse　it　and　himself　with　the　familiar　hypocrisies　that　make　the　comfortable　classes　preen　themselves　on　being　the　guardians　and　saviours　of　the　ignorant；　incapable　masses。　　When　old　Lockyer　said　one　day　that　this　was　the　function　of　the　〃upper　classes；〃　Norman　retorted：