cs of wounded men--all the rest of
it."

"It must have been an exciting conversation."

"You never could be brought to believe it, but it was. Afterward, we
talked of other things. She seems to me quite a remarkable woman."

"Entirely so. What is it she lacks that prevents men from falling in
love with her? Men flock there, and she is more discussed as a mind
and a personality than any woman among us; but it is all above the
collar. And yet those handsome-ugly women often captivate men."

"You ask one woman why another cannot fascinate men! I should say that
it is for want of transmission. The heart and passions are there--I
will risk guessing that she has been tragically in love at least
once--but there is something wrong with the conduit that carries sexual
magnetism; it has been bent upward to the brain instead of directed
straight to the sex for which it was designed. Moreover, she is too
coldly and obviously analytical and lacks the tact to conceal it. Men
do not mind being skewered when they are out for purely intellectual
enjoyment, but they do not love it."

Clavering laughed. "I fancy your own mind is quite as coldly
analytical, but nature took care of your conduits and you see to the
tact. You cannot teach Gora how to redistribute her magnetism, but you
might give her a few points."

"They would be wasted. It is merely that I am a woman of the world,
something she will never be. And in my hey-day, I can assure you, I
was not analytical."

"Your hey-day?"

"I was a good many years younger before the war, remember. Heavens!
How rowdy those young people are! A month ago I should have asked if
they were ladies and gentlemen, but I have been quite close to their
kind in the tea rooms and their accent is unmistakable; although the
girls talk and act like _gamines_. One of them seems to know you."

Clavering had been conscious that the restaurant was filling with
groups and couples, bound, no doubt, for the opera or theatre. He
followed Madame Zattiany's eyes. In the middle of the room was a large
table surrounded by very young men and girls; the latter as fragile and
lovely as butterflies: that pathetic and swiftly passing youth of the
too pampered American girl. The youth of this generation promised to
be briefer than ever!

He gave them a cursory glance, and then his chair turned to pins.
Janet Oglethorpe sat at the head of the table. What would the brat do?
She had been fond of hi