t would be better still. To work merely for one's self, to think
merely for one's self, it is so much less interesting."

Then, at some such point of the argument, Miss Ramsbotham would jump up
from her chair and shake herself indignantly.

"Why, what nonsense I'm talking," she would tell herself, and her
listeners. "I make a very fair income, have a host of friends, and enjoy
every hour of my life. I should like to have been pretty or handsome, of
course; but no one can have all the good things of this world, and I have
my brains. At one time, perhaps, yes; but now--no, honestly I would not
change myself."

Miss Ramsbotham was sorry that no man had ever fallen in love with her,
but that she could understand.

"It is quite clear to me." So she had once unburdened herself to her
bosom friend. "Man for the purposes of the race has been given two kinds
of love, between which, according to his opportunities and temperament,
he is free to choose: he can fall down upon his knees and adore physical
beauty (for Nature ignores entirely our mental side), or he can take
delight in circling with his protecting arm the weak and helpless. Now,
I make no appeal to either instinct. I possess neither the charm nor
beauty to attract--"

"Beauty," reminded her the bosom friend, consolingly, "dwells in the
beholder's eye."

"My dear," cheerfully replied Miss Ramsbotham, "it would have to be an
eye of the range and capacity Sam Weller frankly owned up to not
possessing--a patent double-million magnifying, capable of seeing through
a deal board and round the corner sort of eye--to detect any beauty in
me. And I am much too big and sensible for any man not a fool ever to
think of wanting to take care of me.

"I believe," remembered Miss Ramsbotham, "if it does not sound like idle
boasting, I might have had a husband, of a kind, if Fate had not
compelled me to save his life. I met him one year at Huyst, a small,
quiet watering-place on the Dutch coast. He would walk always half a
step behind me, regarding me out of the corner of his eye quite
approvingly at times. He was a widower--a good little man, devoted to
his three charming children. They took an immense fancy to me, and I
really think I could have got on with him. I am very adaptable, as you
know. But it was not to be. He got out of his depth one morning, and
unfortunately there was no one within distance but myself who could swim.
I knew what the result would be