bars of my cage to make myself think I'm a wild, free bird by
nature. If you opened the door, I'd not fly out, but would hop
meekly back to my perch and fall to smoothing my feathers. . . .
Tell me some more about Victor Dorn.''

``I told you he isn't fit to talk about,'' said Martha. ``Do you
know, they say now that he is carrying on with that shameless,
brazen thing who writes for his paper, that Selma Gordon?''

``Selma Gordon,'' echoed Jane. Her brows came down in a gesture
reminiscent of her father, and there was a disagreeable
expression about her mouth and in her light brown eyes. ``Who's
Selma Gordon?''

``She makes speeches--and writes articles against rich
people--and--oh, she's horrid.''

``Pretty?''

``No--a scrawny, black thing. The men--some of them--say she's
got a kind of uncanny fascination. Some even insist that she's
beautiful.'' Martha laughed. ``Beautiful! How could a woman
with black hair and a dark skin and no flesh on her bones be
beautiful?''

``It has been known to happen,'' said Jane curtly. ``Is she one
of THE Gordons?''

``Mercy, no!'' cried Martha Galland. ``She simply took the name
of Gordon--that is, her father did. He was a Russian peasant--a