an is, and take my own steps in the matter."

Her expression was grave and unruffled, though a certain look of
amusement might have been detected in her eyes, by a youth less
embarrassed than Mr. West was.

"Don't do that," he said; "Bubbles could never find out. You wish to
know who is sending you flowers?"

"Very much. Can _you_ find out?"

"I think so. I mean, I'm sure I can."

"And when you have found him will you point out to him that in the
future he must be open and above-board, or something disagreeable will
be done to him?"

Mr. West bowed humbly.

"How long," she asked, "will it take you to run the creature down?"

"Well," said Mr. West, "I could go to the florist whose name is on the
box, show my badge, and exact a description of the man who bought the
flowers. Then I could give you the description, and if you knew any
such man--"

"The florist," said Barbara, her expression Sphinx-like, "is just
'round the corner."

"I hear," said Mr. West, "and I obey."

"I will read a book till you come back," said Barbara.

But she didn't read a book; she leaned instead from a window and watched
for Mr. West to come out of the studio-building. He came presently, but
did not turn east in search of the florist. Neither did he descend the
steps. Instead, he took out his watch and sat down, and waited. Barbara
in great glee watched him for ten minutes. She was possessed of a
devilish longing to fashion out of paper a small water-bomb and drop it
on his head. Memories of water-bombs brought up memories of Wilmot Allen
and old days. She drew back from the window and was no longer gleeful.
Why should men trouble her heart, since she wished and had elected to
live, not a woman's life but a man's? She paced the studio, her soul at
odds with the rest of her.

Had she ever encouraged Wilmot? Yes. West? Yes. And about a dozen
others. And here she struck her left palm with her right fist. She had
even encouraged a man who had committed all the crimes in the calendar
and was only half a man at that! Half a man? She was not sure. There was
a certain compelling force about him which at times made him seem more
of a man to her than all the rest of them put together. "I can't imagine
him in love," she thought. "It's really too revolting. But if he was, I
can imagine nothing that he would let stand in his way, I wonder if he
is married. And if he is I pity her. And yet she could say to other
women, 'My husband is a man,' an