“Yes, it is an unjust world. Let a woman but be beautiful and everything is at her feet, for you men are despicable creatures, and care for little except what is pleasant to the senses. On the other hand, let her be plain, or only ordinary-looking—for the fate of most of us is just to escape being ugly—and you pay as much regard to her as you do to the chairs you sit on. And yet, strange as it may seem to you, probably she has her feelings, and her capacities for high affection, and her imaginative power, all working vigorously behind her plain little face. Probably, too, she is better than your beauty. Nature does not give everything. When she endows a woman with perfect loveliness, she robs her either of her heart or her brains. But you men don’t see that, because you won’t look; so in course of time all the fine possibilities in Miss Plainface wither up, and she becomes a disappointed old maid, while my Lady Beauty pursues her career of selfishness and mischief-making, till at last she withers up too, that’s one comfort. We all end in bones, you know, and there isn’t much difference between us then.” Ernest had been listening with great amusement to Dorothy’s views. He had no idea that she took such matters into her shrewd consideration. “I heard a girl say the other day that, on the whole, most women preferred to become old maids,” he said. “Then she told fibs; they don’t. It isn’t natural that they should—that is, if they care for anybody. Just think, there are more than ten hundred thousand of our charming sisterhood in these islands, and more women being born every day! Ten hundred thousand restless, unoccupied, disgusted, loveless women! It is simply awful to think of. I wonder they don’t breed a revolution. If they were all beautiful, they would.” He laughed again. “Do you know what remedy Mazooku would apply to this state of affairs?” “No.” “The instant adoption of polygamy. There are no unmarried women among the Natal Zulus, and as a class they are extremely happy.” Dorothy shook her head. “It wouldn’t do here; it would be too expensive.” “I say, Doll, you spoke just now of our ‘charming sisterhood’; you are rather young to consider yourself an old maid. Do you want to become one?” “Yes,” she said sharply. “Then _you_ don’t care for anybody, eh?” She blushed up furiously. “What business is that of yours, I should like to know?” she answered. “Well, Doll, not much. But will you be angry with me if I say something?” “I suppose you can say what you like.” “Yes; but will you listen?” “If you speak I cannot help hearing.” “Well, then, Doll—now don’t be angry, dear.” “O Ernest, how you aggravate me! Can’t you get it out and have done with it?”