"Really, it is quite abominable how women thrust themselves into every
profession," she remarked, in her masculine voice. "It is so unfeminine,
so unseemly."

There was nothing of the feminine about Miss Blake; her horse-cloth
dress, her waistcoat and high collar, and her billycock hat were of the
masculine genus; even her nerves could not be called feminine, since we
learn from two or three doctors (taken off their guard) that nerves are
neither feminine nor masculine, but common.

"I should like to see this tuner," said one of the tennis-players,
leaning against a tree.

"Here she comes," said Miss Blake, as the little girl was seen
sauntering into the garden.

The men put up their eye-glasses, and saw a little lady with a childish
face and soft brown hair, of strictly feminine appearance and bearing.
The goat came toward her and began nibbling at her frock. She seemed
to understand the manner of goats, and played with him to his heart's
content. One of the tennis players, Oswald Everard by name, strolled
down to the bank where she was having her frolic.

"Good-afternoon," he said, raising his cap. "I hope the goat is not
worrying you. Poor little fellow! this is his last day of play. He is to
be killed to-morrow for _table d'hote_."

"What a shame!" she said. "Fancy to be killed, and then grumbled at!"

"That is precisely what we do here," he said, laughing. "We grumble at