vicariously. The sourest of old maids is thus doomed to have a hand in the
perpetuation of the race."

Thus spake the Literary Man from London, discoursing generally--out of
earshot of the Vicar and his wife, to whom he was paying one of his
periodical visits--in a corner of their drawing-room. Zora, conscious of
matchmaking, declared him to be horrid and physiological.

"A woman is much more refined and delicate in her motives."

"The highly civilized woman," said Rattenden, "is delightfully refined in
her table manners, and eats cucumber sandwiches in the most delicate way in
the world; but she is obeying the same instinct that makes your lady
cannibal thrust raw gobbets of missionary into her mouth with her fingers."

"Your conversation is revolting," said Zora.

"Because I speak the truth? Truth is a Mokanna."

"What on earth is that?" asked Zora.

The Literary man sighed. "The Veiled Prophet of Khorasan, Lalla Rookh, Tom
Moore. Ichabod."

"It sounds like a cypher cablegram," said Zora flippantly. "But go on."

"I will. Truth, I say, is a Mokanna. So long as it's decently covered with
a silver veil, you all prostrate yourselves before it and pretend to
worship it. When anyone lifts the veil and reveals the revolting horror of
it, you run away screaming, with your hands before your eyes. Why do you