"Almost every man is drawn, I think, to a sad or tired woman. There is a
look about the eyes that makes an instantaneous draft on the sympathies.
So, when these slight confidences of my companion confirmed my misgivings
as to her own weariness, I at once began diverting her as best I could
with some account of my summer's experience in Venice, and with such of my
plans for the future as at the moment filled my mind. I was younger
then,--perhaps only a year or two her senior,--and you know one is not
given to much secrecy at twenty-six: certainly not with a gentle lady
whose good-will you are trying to gain, and whose sorrowful face, as I
have said, enlists your sympathy at sight. Then, to establish some sort of
footing for myself, I drifted into an account of my own home life; telling
her of my mother and sisters, of the social customs of our country, of the
freedom given the women,--so different from what I had seen abroad,--of
their perfect safety everywhere.

"We had been talking in this vein some time, she listening quietly until
something I said reacted in a slight curl of her lips,--more incredulous
than contemptuous, perhaps, but significant all the same; for, lifting her
eyes, she answered slowly and meaningly:--

"'It must be a paradise for women. I am glad to believe that there is one
corner of the earth where they are treated with respect. My own
experiences have been so different that I have begun to believe that none
of us are safe after we leave our cradles.' Then, as if suddenly realizing
the inference, the color mounting to her cheeks, she added: 'But please do
not misunderstand me. I am quite willing to accept your statement; for I
never met an American before.'

"As we neared the foothills the air grew colder. She instinctively drew
her cloak the closer, settling herself in one corner and closing her eyes