“Because he generally is—­if he wants to be,” said the Literary Man from London.

Zora caught her breath.  “Well of all—­” she began.

“Yes, I know what you’re going to say.  Millions of women have said it and eaten their words.  Why should you—­beautiful as you are—­be an exception to the law of life?  You’re going out to suck the honey of the world, and men’s hearts will be your flowers.  Instinct will drive you.  You won’t be able to get away from it.  You think you’re going to be thrilled into passionate raptures by cathedrals and expensive restaurants and the set pieces of fashionable scenery.  You’re not.  Your store of honey will consist of emotional experiences of a primitive order.  If not, I know nothing at all about women.”

“Do you know anything about them?” she asked sweetly.

“More than would be becoming of me to tell,” he replied.  “Anyhow,” he added, “that doesn’t matter.  I’ve made my prophecy.  You’ll tell me afterwards, if I have the pleasure of seeing you again, whether it has come true.”

“It won’t come true,” said Zora.

“We shall see,” said the wise man.

She dashed, that afternoon, into her sister’s tiny flat in Chelsea.  Emily, taken by surprise, hastily stuffed to the bottom of her work-basket a man’s silk tie which she was knitting, and then greeted Zora affectionately.

She was shorter, slimmer, paler than her sister:  of a certain babyish prettiness.  She had Mrs. Oldrieve’s weak mouth and gentle ways.

“Why, Zora, who would have thought of seeing you?  What are you doing in town?”

“Getting hats and frocks—­a trousseau of freedom.  I’ve left Nunsmere.  I’m on my own.”

Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were flushed.  She caught Emily to her bosom.

“Oh, darling!  I’m so happy—­a bird let out of a cage.”

“An awful big bird,” laughed Emily.

“Yes, let out of an awful small cage.  I’m going to see the world, for the first time in my life.  I’m going to get out of the cold and wet—­going South—­to Italy—­Sicily—­Egypt—­anywhere.”

“All by yourself?”

“There’ll be Turner.”

“Turner?”

“Ah, you don’t know her.  My new maid.  But isn’t it glorious?  Why shouldn’t you come with me, darling?  Do.  Come.”

“And throw up my engagement?  I couldn’t.  I should love it, but you don’t know how hard engagements are to get.”

“Never mind.  I’ll pay for everything.”

But Emily shook her fluffy head.  She had a good part, a few lines to speak and a bit of a song to sing in a successful musical comedy.  She looked back on the two years’ price she had paid for that little bit of a song.  It was dearer to her than anything—­save one thing—­in life.

“I can’t.  Besides, don’t you think a couple of girls fooling about alone look rather silly?  It wouldn’t really be very funny without a man.”

Zora rose in protest.  “The whole human race is man-mad!  Even mother.  I think everybody is detestable!”