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"My dear madam, you don't realize ours. We don't want to imprison women."

She backed half a step, and quite needlessly I let it go. Then she bade me not forget I had promised her the words of a certain song. "Want them? Indeed, yes! Did you not say it was an unpublished song written by a messmate of yours?--oh, Mr. Smith! I see why you stammer! You said 'a member of your mess'! oh!--oh!--oh!--you wrote it, yourself! And you wrote it to-day! That explains--" She drew an awesome breath, rose to her toes and knit her knuckles under her throat.

"My God! she shall not!" I cried, and whirled about and galloped back.

He was amused. "Go if you want; but be quick; here they come already, a small bunch of them."

"Did you ever see her?"

Her rejoinder came in a low, grieved monotone: "Did you say had hoped?"

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