"I suppose that king in the story wouldn’t have been seen with his beggar maid at the Savoy until he’d dressed her out," she remarked ironically. "Well, you won’t go there with me any time, anyway." "Why not?" "Because this young woman provides her own wardrobe." "We shall see." Woolf liked her spirit, otherwise her independence might have irritated him. Arrived at his house he gave her in charge of his man’s wife. Maggy disliked the woman on sight. There was something furtive about her. She gave the impression of being one who was used to waiting on ladies in a single man’s house. Sly and secret amusement lurked in her eyes. She lingered, unostentatiously, while Maggy prinked herself in front of the glass. After a minute or two she turned, and intimated that she was ready. "Wouldn’t you like to take off your hat, miss?" There was something unpleasantly insinuating in the smooth tones. "No, thanks," said Maggy shortly. "You’ve left your purse on the table, miss." "Have I? There’s nothing in it. It’ll be quite safe." The woman led the way downstairs and ushered her into a room half-library, half-drawing-room. "Find everything you wanted?" inquired Woolf, coming forward to meet her. "Yes, thanks. What a swanky bed-room! Silver hair-brushes and face powder and hairpins! Is it yours?" "No, it’s the visitors’ room. I’m glad you like it." "I didn’t say I liked it. It looked as if you always had it ready for a lady. I don’t like the look of your man’s wife either." Woolf laughed at the downright expression of opinion. "She’s all right," he said significantly. "She’s as quiet as the grave and much deeper." "She’s no good." "Who _is_! Are you?" He took her hand and tried to draw her to him. Maggy’s form grew rigid. "Hands off," she said coolly. "There’s nothing doing here." "Won’t you let me kiss you?" "No." "Why not?" "For the same reason that I keep my hat on, and you don’t. One’s out of respect for me and the other’s respect for myself." "You’re a funny girl!" Woolf drew back and looked at her. "Why are you on the defensive?" "Haven’t I need to be?" "Not with me, surely. I want to be friends with you." "Friends!" She threw up her chin aggressively. "I’ve only got one in the world." "And who is he?" Woolf asked with quick curiosity. "She’s a girl. I chum with her." "Women can’t be friends with each other," he asserted didactically. "Especially when they’re of the same profession. A Hottentot woman and her civilized sister have only one occupation—the study and pursuit of man. You’re like doctors, all at each other’s throats. Some of you practise homeopathy, the others are allopaths. The first marry and take their husbands in small doses, the allopaths believe in quantity. Your friend would probably leave you to-morrow if she got a good enough chance." "Talk about some one you know," Maggy responded.