"I beg a thousand pardons," he exclaimed. "I did not mean to be insincere--indeed, Miss Crabb, I was under the impression that I was making myself quite entertaining, don't you know, I----" She laughed again, a clear, honest, prairie laugh, throwing back her head and holding up one hand as if to ward off something. "Oh, it's the same thing over and over. Wherever I go men look upon me as a sort of monstrosity at large by some accident, because I travel alone, just as a man may, and because I attend to my business, just as a man does. It's really funny sometimes; I overhear what they say. They comment on me. 'A cheeky old girl,' 'a newspaper crank,' 'a stiff-minded female,' and 'a meddling nuisance,' are the delicate and friendly epithets applied to me by men. One fellow at the Cincinnati convention called me 'a bag of gimlets' to my face." "But then your absolute knowledge that the man was mistaken must have ruined the point of his remark," said Moreton. "Conscious innocence is an impenetrable shield." She looked up at him with a flash of momentary anger in her eyes, then laughing again she said: "Oh, go on, I'm used to it, and, besides, I can't afford to quarrel with you until I have your sketches in hand; you _must_ make the sketches, Mr. Moreton: they will be invaluable to me. I want to get on in literature, and the only way in which I can do that is to get into the great illustrated magazines: they are the highways to fame." There was a hungry, almost greedy ring to her voice, as if her longing for literary recognition were rooted in her heart. Moreton fancied that her lips quivered as she spoke. Her manner touched his sympathy. "You'll get on fast enough, Miss Crabb," he quickly said; "your energy and persistence and your capacity for work will take you through, never fear." It was the best he could think of, though he felt its utter inadequacy to her fancied needs. As he looked down upon her his rather heavy, thoroughly English face wore a very kindly expression. "But you don't know, Mr. Moreton, you can't imagine what a hard time I have; how many ugly obstacles men put in my way, simply because I am a woman. I don't see why they do, but they do. It's awful sometimes." "They are brutes, they ought to be punched, don't you know," he blurted; "they deserve no recognition by gentlemen." "Yes, but they _do_ get recognition," she replied, half-mournfully. "They drink and smoke and swear themselves into prominence in every walk of life--into fame, fortune, and----" "Oh, not so bad as that, I hope," he interposed. "Don't be discouraged. George Eliot and Georges Sand and----" "They are not American women," she interrupted in turn, "and they have never tried editing a country newspaper or writing for a New York magazine. They were rich, or had influential friends, or made people believe they were men." "Well, suppose you try adopting a masculine pseudonym, you might----"