"You are thinking of the 'New' women I suppose,--but you flatter them,--they never had any sex to lose. The self-degrading creatures who delineate their fictional heroines as wallowing in unchastity, and who write freely on subjects which men would hesitate to name, are unnatural hybrids of no-sex. Mavis Clare is not one of them,--she is an 'old-fashioned' young woman. Mademoiselle Derino, the dancer, is 'unsexed,' but you did not object to her on that score,--on the contrary I believe you have shown your appreciation of her talents by spending a considerable amount of cash upon her." "That's not a fair comparison"--I answered hotly--"Mademoiselle Derino amused me for a time." "And was not your rival in art!" said Lucio with a little malicious smile--"I see! Still,--as far as the question of being 'unsexed' goes, I, personally, consider that a woman who shows the power of her intellect is more to be respected than the woman who shows the power of her legs. But men always prefer the legs,--just as they prefer the devil to the Deity. All the same, I think, as we have time to spare, we may as well see this genius." "Genius!" I echoed contemptuously. "Feminine twaddler, then!" he suggested, laughing--"Let us see this feminine twaddler. She will no doubt prove as amusing as Mademoiselle Derino in her way. I shall ring the bell and ask if she is at home." He advanced towards the creeper-covered porch,--but I stood back, mortified and sullen, determined not to accompany him inside the house if he were admitted. Suddenly a blithe peal of musical laughter sounded through the air, and a clear voice exclaimed-- "Oh Tricksy! You wicked boy! Take it back directly and apologise!" Lucio peered through the fence, and then beckoned to me energetically. "There she is!" he whispered, "There is the dyspeptic, sour, savage old blue-stocking,--there, on the lawn,--by Heaven!--she's enough to strike terror into the heart of any man--and millionaire!"