being far above the idle, cruel dealer in human hearts; I was said to be full of old-fashioned coquetry, but not even flirtatious; that I was gracious, had pleasing manners, but was the very soul of sincerity, and would never be guilty of leading men on and on.  I was frequently contrasted with that devilish brown-eyed beauty—­a recognized flirt, ready to sacrifice any man on her crowded altar.  A man once said to me of her: 

  “Such kings of shreds have wooed and won her,
    Such crafty knaves her laurel owned,
  It has become almost an honor
    Not to be crowned.”

“Hush! hush! she is my friend,” I said, for I knew him to be one of her rejected lovers.  In a month I had gently told him nay.  But he was innocent, he did not know that I had played my cards for him.  He thought me cold, but he thought me kind.  He advertised me in desirable places and with most desirable people.  I captivated several other desirable men.  It is so easy for a woman to fool a man.  But I was eager to try my powers on better metal—­some man of the world.  A victory in such a quarter would fully establish me, and it would bring the very best men to my side, for they, like sheep, readily follow the well-known leader.  And perhaps—­Gerome might return.

One winter’s night late, after I had gone to my room, two men called.  Ordinarily I should have excused myself, but something—­we call it fate, I believe—­prompted me to see them.  One was an old friend—­a friend of the family.  The other a thorough man of the world, and—­I knew it intuitively—­my desired victim.  He was an idle, indifferent, Social Drifter.  He was an artist by profession; his inclination—­and his leisure—­made him more of a diletante than any thing else.  He was more notorious than famous.  He had done nothing to give himself fame, but he had done many odd things which gave him notoriety.  I have always had a secret but deep-rooted love of notoriety; it makes my blood tingle with a most delicious sensation.  I knew that he could give me a great deal of quiet notoriety which was the one thing needed to make me a success—­notice, notice, constant notice!  The surgeon may be ever so skillful and yet if his skill be not known his instruments, rusted with disuse, will cling to their unopened cases and his hand will forget its cunning.  So is it with the flirtatious maiden; she must hang forth a sign which may be read, and quickly, even by those who run.

My artist lover was not the ideal slender, pale-faced youth; he was not beautiful, he was not good looking.  But perhaps I should have loved him if he had been the one, and tolerated him longer if he had been the other.  He was aggressive; he was open, direct always; he was not blunt, yet he was free from the all-prevalent use of the preliminary.  He loved me!  And he very soon told me as much and more.  He made no concealment of the fact to me, or indeed to others.  He loved me, was