She was pretty enough to gratify his fastidiousness, especially as it was not an obvious prettiness. She wore glasses, which gave her rather the air of a young school-ma’am; and it was only after reaching a certain degree of intimacy, that you discovered there were lovely blue eyes behind the glass. She had too, an admirable straight, short nose, and a sweet-lipped mouth, a thought too small. Her body was well enough. She gave an impression of thinness which was illusory. She was a coquette, and a great fool; and conversation with her was a weariness to a young man who had a good conceit of himself, owing to her ridiculous assumptions. But old men and unattractive men crowded around her. Wilfred had always found a certain stimulus in the society of a coquette. It would make him a little indignant to see other men willing to subserve their pretensions; and when opportunity offered, he was eager to undertake the rehabilitation of his sex. Moreover, it was amusing to observe the astonishment of a coquette when her queenship was coolly questioned. Derision was devastating to coquettes. Unfortunately, the game was too easy. There was no glory in making a conquest of a coquette. Dethroned, she forthwith grovelled. Daisy lived far up-town. She shared a tiny flat with a girl who was a trained nurse. To-night in order to make the long journey tolerable, Wilfred set about provoking Daisy to wrath. “What a pretty little wife Dexter has!” he remarked. “Do you think so?” said Daisy melodiously. “Such eyes, such teeth, such hair! I don’t blame him for keeping her close.” “That is just what you would do, isn’t it?” “You bet I would! . . . Sweet enough to eat! Think of having _that_ to fetch your slippers!” “Yes, she looked like a slipper-fetcher,” said Daisy. “You wouldn’t fetch a man’s slippers, would you?” “You are merely being fatuous!” she said. “. . . Like a delicious kitten!” said Wilfred. “All soft and downy!” “They live in the Bronx, don’t they?” enquired Daisy, feeling of her back hair. “She looks as if she had her clothes made near home.” Wilfred hooted. “You can’t bear to hear another woman praised!” “Not at all!” said Daisy with dignity. “I enjoy looking at a pretty woman as much as a man does. I have always said so. Women are nicer to look at than men, any day. And a woman is a far better judge of another woman’s looks than any man is!” “Maybe so,” said Wilfred. “But a pretty woman isn’t pretty for women.” “No, only for the lords of creation, I suppose.” “You’re rather pretty yourself,” he said casually appraising her. “_Merci, monsieur!_” “But you give yourself such airs!” This line served very well for half a dozen stations on the elevated. Daisy stiffened her back as if she had swallowed the poker; and her eyes shot sparks of pure anger through the glasses. All very well; good fun as long as the sparks flew; but when, at last, she began to pull down the corners of her babyish mouth, Wilfred suddenly sickened.