"And so you have really left Rome?" says Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe at last, when her guest is reclining lazily in his chair, and has begged her not to ring for lights or disturb the cosy solitude of the room. "And how are the Vavasours?" A little change is visible in the face of the young man--a face strangely altered in these two years. The features are handsome as ever, but there is a haggard, worn look about them, and the blue eyes are feverish and dim, and heavy shadows lie beneath the long dark lashes. Those eyes and lashes are the greatest beauty in Keith Athelstone's face, and now that haunting look of sadness gives them tenfold more attraction than they possessed before. "They are quite well," he says, after a brief pause; "they come to town next week." "I wonder you did not wait and come with them." "Lady Vavasour did not wish it," he answers quietly. Mrs. Woollffe gives him a quick glance and is silent. "I've had a troop of women here," she says presently. "Glad you didn't come in the midst of their chatter. My, they'll be after you like flies after molasses this season, Keith! Take care you aren't married in spite of yourself." "Married?" his voice rings out with angry energy; "not if I know it. I _hate_ women." "Hate 'em?--that's queer," remarks Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe. "Something's wrong with you, then. Boys at your age aren't women-haters for nothing." "I mean, of course, those husband-hunting creatures," says Keith apologetically. "Why can't they let a fellow alone, I wonder?" "Can't say, I'm sure, unless it's just their malice drives 'em on one against the other, and each tries to be foremost with the traps and gins. When a man's got money, I suppose they think it ain't right unless he shares it with a female. And there's such an almighty lot of women in Great Britain. Nice enough, too, some of 'em; I like 'em better'n Amurcans. They've a real good time of it out here, too. When we get married, we're shelved--done for. We let the young 'uns have their time; but, lor' bless me, _here_ the married women seem to have the best of the fun, and are as skittish as colts, even when they're forty." "Yes, that's so," answered Keith. "In these days married women--so long as they're pretty--command more admiration and attention than the girls. The fact of being appropriated seems to lend them a greater charm. Perhaps, though, men think they're safer. The mothers make such dead running, you know, and if you dance twice with a girl, suspect 'intentions.'" "It's bad, though," says Mrs. Woollffe, shaking her head. "Bad for Society--bad for men--bad for the girls, too. They'll marry the first man who asks them, because they think they'll have more real freedom afterwards. But what sort of wives and mothers will they make?"