About a week before leaving the T. Z. I had a set-to with my landlady. Stopping at the door of her room to pay my rent, I handed her two dollars and seventy-five cents—the additional quarter for gas used in cooking. Imagine my astonishment when the woman began to goggle her eyes at me, to wiggle her tongue back and forth, making a hissing sound, all the while trying to elongate and contract her fat stub of a neck. When I demanded to know if she had lost her mind, she became apologetic and assured me that she was only trying to get my vibrations. Thereupon, forgetting the biblical threat of hell-fire, I told her she was a fool—not the scientific fool that she claimed to be, but the plain garden variety. Finding Molly on the top floor, I told her I did not wish Mrs. Brown to go into my room so long as I paid rent for it. The next day I went direct from work to the Jane Leonard House—another home for working girls. There I paid a deposit on a room with two meals a day at six-fifty a week, to take possession at the end of my time with Mrs. Brown. When I notified this woman that I was leaving her house she denounced me bitterly. “You’re deserting me because I didn’t succeed in stopping the war,” she accused. Then she added, wagging her head at me: “I would’ve done it if President Wilson had a-done what I told him to. That’s who’s a fool—President Wilson. If he’d a stopped the war my fortune would’ve been made.” President Wilson! I wonder how many persons call him a fool because he refused to make them fortunes? But that was not the last of this owner of my first rooming-house. The day that I moved out she waylaid me on the stairs. “Ain’t you ashamed?” she demanded. “Ain’t you ashamed to treat a fellow woman like you’ve treated me?” “It is because you are a woman that I am leaving your house,” I told her. “You are knowingly and intentionally a faker. It is the duty of every decent woman to make you feel that you dishonor your sex. A man won’t do it—not an American—he has too much respect for your sex.” “It’s a shame!” she cried, shedding copious tears. “Men are always kinder to a woman than other women.” “It’s because a woman better understands a woman. Knowing the strength as well as the weakness of her own sex, she recognizes their petty deceits and dishonesties,” I replied soothingly, while I resisted an inclination to give her a good deep jab with my hatpin, and thereby give her a cause for real tears. “Don’t forget, ‘it takes a thief to catch a thief.’ Good-by, Mrs. Brown.” And I ran down the stairs and out at the front door. So far as I am concerned that was the last of Mrs. Brown, the inventor of the theory of “vibrations.”