“It was Miss Marvel,” said Agnes, laughing. “She is an eccentric woman, and as I need not tell you, indiscreet and flippant in talk, letting her theories and spirits run away with her judgment. But she accomplishes a great deal of good in her way and has many fine traits of character. It is a pity she does herself such injustice.” “Humph! Does she belong to the sisterhood of letters?” “In a way—yes. Her articles upon the Working Girls of New York, written for newspaper publication two years ago, attracted so much attention that they were collected into a volume last summer.” “She is a member of Sorosis—I gather from her tirade?” “Oh, yes. One of the oldest members.” “What a hotch-potch that society or club—or whatever you may choose to call it—must be! Do you know, darling, I never associate you—or any other true, refined woman with the crew to which you nominally belong? You are a lily among thorns in such a connection. I should rather say among thistles and burdocks and stramonium and the like rank, vile-smelling weeds.” “I thank you for the pretty praise of myself,” smiling sweetly and fondly at him. “But I cannot accept it at the expense of fairer flowers than I can ever hope to be, true, strong women who are trying to help their sex to a higher plane and prepare them for better work than they have yet accomplished, in spite of the limitations of sex—” He caught her up on the word. “Don’t fall into their cant, for Heaven’s sake! The ‘limitations of sex’ are woman’s crown of glory. I have done some sober thinking lately—especially since the drubbing received from your Miss Marvel—with regard to the mooted subject of the emancipation of women, falsely so called. My conclusions may not coincide with your views upon the subject. But, perhaps you do not care to discuss it?” Her face was sunny; her look at once fearless and confiding. “We are both reasonable people, I hope. If we are not, we love each other too well not to agree amicably upon unavoidable disagreements.” Barton tossed his cigar stump into the foam of the nearest wave; a touch of impatience went with fling and laugh. “Isn’t that like a woman? She presupposes disagreement and forestalls argument by pledging herself to forgive for love’s sake whatever she will not admit. The wisest and best of the sex—and you are both of these—will press feeling into what should be impersonal debate. Perhaps it is safer to talk of other things. See that gull swoop down and come up empty-clawed. That is his fourth unsuccessful trip to market within thirty minutes. The _passée_ belle upon the pavilion over there has had that rich youngling in tow twice as long. I will wager a pair of gloves against a buttonhole bouquet with you that she doesn’t land him.” Neither tone nor manner was pleasant. Agnes laid her hand upon his arm.