“Trouble?” she wandered on. “Oh, I’ve had such lots and lots of it that I’m beginning to feel very old already. Troubles I always think are divided into two classes--one controlled by a big-horned, cloven-hoofed devil, and the other by the snippy little devil that flashes in and out of our hearts. The big devil is usually placed upon us by others.” I laughed, admitting that there was much truth in her words. “And the other--the little imp?” I asked. “The other? This insane perversity of human nature gets hold of us whether we will or not. It makes us for the time ignore all that is best in ourselves and in others--it is part of us. Though we know well it is all within ourselves, it will cause our tears to flow and our sorrows to pile up. It is all a fictitious substance with possibly a mint of happiness lying below. We are conscious of it all, but the insanity makes us ignore it for so long that the little imp completes its work, and the opportunity is lost. But why are we moralizing?” she added. “Let’s try and get to sleep, shall we?” To this I willingly acquiesced, for, truth to tell, I did not give credence to a single word of the rather romantic story she had related regarding herself, her friends, and her jealous guardian. I had met women of her stamp many times before. The only way to make them feel is to tell them the truth, devoid of all flattery. She struck me as a woman with a past--her whole appearance was of such. Now a woman with a checkered past and an untrammelled present is always more or less interesting to women as well as men. She is a mystery. The mystery is that men cannot quite believe that a smart woman with knowledge cut loose from all fetters is proof against flattery. She “queens” it while they study her. Interest in a woman is only one step from love for her--a fact of which we of the fairer sex are very well aware. Ulrica had once expressed an opinion that pasts were not so bad if it were not for some of the memories that cling to them, not, of course, that the past of either of us had been anything out of the ordinary. Memories that cling to others or the hint of a “past” certainly make you of interest to others, especially to men, and a menace to the imagination of other women; but the memories that hover about yourself are sometimes like truths--brutal.