“Peculiar! Yes, he is. His appearance, his manner--” “Oh, I don’t mean that.” “No?” “No. Lots of elderly men have purple faces, turned legs and roaring voices. You must know that. Sir Tiglath is peculiar in this way--he is quite elderly and yet he’s not in the least little bit silly.” “Oh!” “He’s a thoroughly sensible old man, the only one I ever met.” “Your father?” “The Chieftain can be very foolish at times. That’s why he’s always relied so on me.” She gave this proof triumphantly. The Prophet felt bound to accept it. “Sir Tiglath is really, as an old man, what everybody thinks I am, as a young woman. D’you see?” “You mean?” “The opposite of me. And in this way too. While I hide my silliness under my eyebrows, and hair, and smile, and manner, he hides his sensibleness under his. When people meet me they always think--what a common-sense young woman! When they meet him they always think--what a preposterous old man!” “Well, but then,” cried the Prophet, struck by a sudden idea, “if that is so, how can you live a double life as Miss Minerva Partridge? You can’t change your eyebrows with your name!” “Ah, you don’t know women!” she murmured. “No, but you see I begin at once.” “Begin?” “Being silly. All the people who know me as Miss Partridge know I’m an absurd person in spite of my looks. I’ve proved it to them by my actions. I’ve begun at once before they could have time to judge by my appearance. I’ve told them instantly that I’m a Christian Scientist, and a believer in the value of tight-lacing and in ghosts, an anti-vaccinator, a Fabian, a member of ‘The Masculine Club,’ a ‘spirit,’ a friend of Mahatmas, an intimate of the ‘Rational Dress’ set--you know, who wear things like half inflated balloons in Piccadilly--a vegetarian, a follower of Mrs. Besant, a drinker of hop bitters and Zozophine, a Jacobite, a hater of false hair and of all collective action to stamp out hydrophobia, a stamp-collector, an engager of lady-helps instead of servants, an amateur reciter and skirt dancer, an owner of a lock of Paderewski’s hair--torn fresh from the head personally at a concert--an admirer of George Bernard Shaw as a thinker but a hater of him as a humourist, a rationalist and reader of _Punch_, an atheist and table-turner, a friend of all who think that women don’t desire to be slaves, a homoeopathist and Sandowite, an enemy of babies--as if all women didn’t worship them!--a lover of cats--as if all women didn’t hate one another!--a--” “One--one moment!” gasped the Prophet at this juncture. “Many of these views are surely in opposition, in direct opposition to each other.” “I daresay. That doesn’t matter in the least to a real silly woman such as I am.” “And then you said that you proved by your actions instantly that--”