“We ought,” said he, “to justify our existence.”

She drew herself up and flashed an indignant glance at him.

“I beg your pardon,” he apologized.  “You do justify yours.”

“How?”

“You decorate the world.  I was wrong.  That is the true function of a beautiful woman, and you fulfill it.”

“I have in my bag,” replied Zora slowly, and looking at him steady-eyed, “a preventive against sea-sickness; I have a waterproof to shelter me from rain; but what can I do to shield myself against silly compliments?”

“Adopt the costume of the ladies of the Orient,” said the Literary Man from London, unabashed.

She laughed, although she detested him.  He bent forward with humorous earnestness.  He had written some novels, and now edited a weekly of precious tendencies and cynical flavor.

“I am a battered old man of thirty-five,” said he, “and I know what I am talking about.  If you think you are going to wander at a loose end about Europe without men paying you compliments and falling in love with you and making themselves generally delightful, you’re traveling under a grievous hallucination.”

“What you say,” retorted Zora, “confirms me in my opinion that men are an abominable nuisance.  Why can’t they let a poor woman go about in peace?”

The train happened to be waiting at Clapham Junction.  A spruce young man, passing by on the platform, made a perceptible pause by the window, his eyes full on her.  She turned her head impatiently.  Rattenden laughed.

“Dear lady,” said he, “I must impart to you the elements of wisdom.  Miss Keziah Skaffles, with brain cordage for hair, and monoliths for teeth, and a box of dominoes for a body, can fool about unmolested among the tribes of Crim Tartary.  She doesn’t worry the Tartars.  But, permit me to say it, as you are for the moment my disciple, a beautiful woman like yourself, radiating feminine magnetism, worries a man exceedingly.  You don’t let him go about in peace, so why should he let you?”

“I think,” said Zora, as the train moved on, “that Miss Keziah Skaffles is very much to be envied, and that this is a very horrid conversation.”

She was offended in her provincial-bred delicacy.  It was enough to make her regard herself with repulsion.  She took up the fashion paper she had bought at the station—­was she not intending to run delicious riot among the dressmakers and milliners of London?—­and regarding blankly the ungodly waisted ladies in the illustrations, determined to wear a wig and paint her face yellow, and black out one of her front teeth, so that she should not worry the Tartars.

“I am only warning you against possible dangers,” said Rattenden stiffly.  He did not like his conversation to be called horrid.

“To the race of men?”

“No, to yourself.”

She laughed scornfully.  “No fear of that.  Why does every man think himself irresistible?”