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 this as the name of my prospective temple to celibacy. “Sans Souci” — Without Disquiet! It seemed to me to express admirably the spirit of existence without hairpins and without “in-laws.”

The girl and I surveyed each other for an instant in silence. She was one of those girls who prove, if they prove anything, that clothes do not make the man. With the sole exception of her shortish walking-skirt, there was no visible article of her apparel which had not been plagiarised from something distinctly masculine. She wore a broad-brimmed felt hat, and a stock, and a man’s belt, and a Norfolk jacket, and dogskin walking-gloves turned back at the wrists, and heavy shoes with the soles protruding all around like little piazzas. She was what sensible people call bold-looking, and poets call debonair; and, altogether, she was a type to which I had a violent objection. At that first glimpse of her I thought she was one of the best reasons for