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At first he thought she was a man, but her skirts betrayed her. She was short haired, stout, gnarled, with a heavy face and blunt fingers. Cold stupidity was stamped on every feature of her face ; there was malevolence in her eye, too.
"You write?" she asked with the insolence of the unclassed.
"Yes," replied Oliver pleasantly ; " do you ?"
Later Weyward remonstrated with him, chuckling as he did so :
" Why, man alive, she'll slaughter you for that ! "
But Oliver only scowled in reply :
" I'm tired of this" he said ; ''I never was made to be bullied by your women with three names, nor to be pawed by professional adorers, male or female. Let's go, Weyward, or let us talk to Rix's crowd "
'' Pooh," said Weyward ; there's material in all this, Oliver. Keep your eyes open ; you won't find another barnyard like this."
So Oliver met more three-named ladies, ladies with missions, ladies who had no use for side-combs, hydra-named ladies, ladies with pretty eyes and receptive minds, ladies who desired to inform themselves, ladies who lisped things that might mean two things, ladies who skirted the edges of decency with epigrams treasured for this evening only And the men! He met Judge Bogle, whose face, in repose, was the most expressionless gargoyle he had ever beheld ; he...
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