It was the first time that such a thought of herself had ever risen before her mind, though in a sense not the first time she had had a pretext for it. Her painful meditations included brief note of Vivian, the eccentric stray across her path who had once considered her deserving of pity as a poor little thing. He, of course, was only an unbalanced religious fanatic, whose opinions were not of the slightest consequence to anybody, whom everybody seemed to take a dislike to at sight (except ignorant paupers like the Cooneys), and whose ideal type of girl would probably be some hideous dowd, a slum-worker, a Salvation Army lassie, perhaps. Yet this man had felt sorry for her at the Beach; he had done it again to-night.... And if he was quite out of her world of men, was of course not a man at all as she counted men, the same could not possibly be said of Mr. Canning, a man of her own kind in the royal power.... The thought of herself as vulnerable and vincible to the hostile sex had come upon the girl, fire-new, with disruptive force. It was pulling out the pin which held her life together. For if she was a failure in the subjugation of men, then she was a failure everywhere: this being the supreme, indeed, you might say the only, purpose of her life.... Below in the still house, the soft-toned chimes rang two; and, almost on the heels of that, it seemed, three. Step by step, Carlisle went back over all her acquaintance with Canning from their first meeting; and gave herself small glory. She had pursued him to the Beach; she had pursued him to Willie's apartment; and on both occasions, and since, she had used her arts to lure him into reversing the pursuit. A dozen times she had sought to lead him, so it seemed now, further than he ever had the slightest idea of going. Was it really a wonder that he, whose experienced eyes observed everything, had seen in her merely his ready plaything? Repulsed, he could wear an air of genuine tenderness, but never doubt that in his heart he was laughing at her, and had a right to.... And she herself ... Were these the pangs of unrequited love that tore her breast? In her desire to land the great catch, by hook or by crook, when had she paused to consult her heart about the glittering prospect? What else did it all mean but that she, calculating, had offered herself to him at the price of his hand, name, and enduring complement of happiness, and he, lightly responding, had rated her as worth, at most, only his counterfeit coin. Why else should the memory of the moment downstairs continually return to her like an affront?