nsolately at the
yellow ribbon in his button-hole, and twiddled his thumbs.

And all the while, from the shadow of a distant cave, Ethra was watching
him with great content. She knew he was hungry; she let him remain so. By
absent treatment she was reducing him to a proper frame of mind.

The word had been passed that he was Ethra's quarry; mischievous bright
eyes glanced at him, but no lips unclosed to speak to him; little feet
strolled near him, even lingered a moment, but trotted on.

His sentiments varied from apathy to pathos, from self-pity to
mortification, from hungry despair to an indignation no longer endurable.

He had enough of it--plenty. Anger overwhelmed him; hunger smothered
sentiment; he rose in wrath and stalked off toward a girl who was
strolling along, reading a treatise on eugenics.

"Will you be good enough to tell me how to get out?" he asked.

"Out?" she repeated. "Have you a pass to go out?"

"No, I haven't. Where do I obtain one?"

"Only the girl who captured you can give you a pass," she said, amused.

"Very well; where can I find her?"

"Who was it netted you?"

"A Miss Leslie," he snapped.

"Oh! Ethra Leslie's cave is over in those rocks," said the girl, "among
those leafy ledges."

"Thanks," he said briefly, and marched off, scowling.

Ethra saw him coming, and his stride and expression scared her. Not
knowing exactly what to do, and not anticipating such a frame of mind in
him, she turned over in her hammock and pretended to be asleep, as his
figure loomed up in the mouth of the cave.

"Miss Leslie!" His voice was stentorian.

She awoke languidly, and did it very well, making a charming picture as
she sat up in her hammock, a trifle confused, sweet blue eyes scarcely
yet unclosed.

"Mr. Langdon!" she exclaimed in soft surprise.

He looked her squarely, menacingly, in the eyes.

"I suppose," he said, "that all this is a grim parody on the past when
women did the waiting until it was men's pleasure to make the next move.
I suppose that my recent appraisement parallels the social inspection of
a debutante--that my present hunger is paying for the wistful
intellectual starvation to which men once doomed your sex; that my
isolation represents the isolation from all that was vital in the times
when women's opportunities were few and restricted; that my probation
among you symbolises the toleration of my sex for whatever specimen of
your sex they captured and set their mark