fascinated him, of feathers, and flowers, swinging fur tails, and
kid-gloved hands, fluttering ribbons, and folds of drapery. Karl von
Rosen would not have acknowledged himself as a woman-hater, that
savoured too much of absurd male egotism, but he had an under
conviction that women were, on the whole, admitting of course
exceptions, self-centered in the pursuit of petty ends to the extent
of absolute viciousness. He disliked women, although he had never
owned it to himself.

In spite of his dislike of women, Von Rosen had a house-keeper. He
had made an ineffectual trial of an ex-hotel chef, but had finally
been obliged to resort to Mrs. Jane Riggs. She was tall and strong,
wider-shouldered than hipped. She went about her work with long
strides. She never fussed. She never asked questions. In fact, she
seldom spoke.

When Von Rosen entered his house that night, after the club meeting,
he had a comfortable sense of returning to an embodied silence. The
coal fire in his study grate was red and clear. Everything was in
order without misplacement. That was one of Jane Riggs' chief
talents. She could tidy things without misplacing them. Von Rosen
loved order, and was absolutely incapable of keeping it. Therefore
Jane Riggs' orderliness was as balm. He sat down in his Morris chair
before his fire, stretched out his legs to the warmth, which was
grateful after the icy outdoor air, rested his eyes upon a plaster
cast over the chimney place, which had been tinted a beautiful hue by
his own pipe, and sighed with content. His own handsome face was rosy
with the reflection of the fire, his soul rose-coloured with complete
satisfaction. He was so glad to be quit of that crowded assemblage of
eager femininity, so glad that it was almost worth while to have