"Who cares if it is?" There was a wistfulness about her brave indifference. "Men are funny. It might be." "I don't somehow think it is. I'd rather not. I was very fond of him." "So was I," said Jenny simply. "Only he's a rotter like all men." It was strange how neither of them seemed able to mention his name. Already he had lost his individuality and was merged in a type. "What will you do?" Castleton asked. "There's a question. How should I know?" Before her mind life like a prairie rolled away into distance infinitely dull. "It was a foolish question. I'm sorry. I wish you'd marry me." Jenny looked at him with sad eyes screwed up in perplexity. "I believe you would, Fuz." "I would. I would." "But I couldn't. I don't want to see any of you ever again." Castleton seemed to shrink. "I'm not being rude, Fuz, really. Only I don't want to." "I perfectly understand." "You mustn't be cross with me." "Cross! Oh, Jane, do I sound cross?" "Because," Jenny went on, "if I saw you or any of his friends, I should only hate you. Good-bye, I must run." "You're all right for money?" Castleton stammered awkwardly. "I mean--there's--oh, damn it, Jenny!" He pounded over to the window, huge and disconsolate. "Why ever on earth should I want money? What's the matter with next Friday's Treasury?" "Perhaps, Jenny, you would come out with me once, if I waited for you one night?" "Please don't. I should only stare you out. I _wouldn't_ know you. I don't ever ever want to see any of you again." She ran from the studio, vanishing like a flame into smoke. That night when Jenny went back alone to Stacpole Terrace, she saw on the table in the cheerless parlor the post card from Maurice, and close beside it the green hat bought in September still waiting to be re-shaped for the spring. She threw it into a corner of the room. Chapter XXV: _Monotone_ Jenny's first thought was an impulse of revenge upon the opposite sex comparable with, but more drastic than, the resolution she had made on hearing of Edie's disaster. She would devote her youth to "doing men down." It was as if from the desert of the soul seared by Maurice, the powers of the body were to sweep like a wild tribe maiming the creators of her solitude. Maurice had stood for her as the epitome of man, and it was to be expected that when he fell, he would involve all men in the ruin. This hostility extended so widely that even her father was included, and Jenny found herself brooding upon the humiliation of his share in her origin.