saxon, brooding over her problem of retaining billy's love, of never staling the freshness of their feeling for each other and of never descending from the heights which at present they were treading, felt herself impelled toward mrs. higgins. she knew; surely she must know. had she not hinted knowledge beyond ordinary women's knowledge?

several weeks went by, during which saxon was often with her. but mrs. higgins talked of all other matters, taught saxon the making of certain simple laces, and instructed her in the arts of washing and of marketing. and then, one afternoon, saxon found mrs. higgins more voluble than usual, with words, clean-uttered, that rippled and tripped in their haste to escape. her eyes were flaming. so flamed her face. her words were flames. there was a smell of liquor in the air and saxon knew that the old woman had been drinking. nervous and frightened, at the same time fascinated, saxon hemstitched a linen handkerchief intended for billy and listened to mercedes' wild flow of speech.

“listen, my dear. i shall tell you about the world of men. do not be stupid like all your people, who think me foolish and a witch with the evil eye. ha! ha! when i think of silly maggie donahue pulling the shawl across her baby's face when we pass each other on the sidewalk! a witch i have been, 'tis true, but my witchery was with men. oh, i am wise, very wise, my dear. i shall tell you of women's ways with men, and of men's ways with women, the best of them and the worst of them. of the brute that is in all men, of the queerness of them that breaks the hearts of stupid women who do not understand. and all women are stupid. i am not stupid. la la, listen.

“i am an old woman. and like a woman, i'll not tell you how old i am. yet can i hold men. yet would i hold men, toothless and a hundred, my nose touching my chin. not the young men. they were mine in my young days. but the old men, as befits my years. and well for me the power is mine. in all this world i am without kin or cash. only have i wisdom and memories—memories that are ashes, but royal ashes, jeweled ashes. old women, such as i, starve and shiver, or accept the pauper's dole and the pauper's shroud. not i. i hold my man. true, 'tis only barry higgins—old barry, heavy, an ox, but a male man, my dear, and queer as all men are queer. 'tis true, he has one arm.” she shrugged her shoulders. “a compensation. he cannot beat me, and old bones are tender when the round flesh thins to strings.

“but when i think of my wild young lovers, princes, mad with the madness of youth! i have lived. it is enough. i regret nothing. and with old barry i have my surety of a bite to eat and a place by the fire. and why? because i know men, and shall never lose my cunning to hold them. 'tis bitter sweet, the knowledge of them, more sweet than bitter—men and men and men! not stupid dolts, nor fat bourgeois swine of business men, but men of temperament, of flame and fire; madmen, maybe, but a lawless, royal race of madmen.

“little wife-woman, you must learn. variety! there lies the magic. 'tis the golden key. 'tis the toy that amuses. without it in the wife, the man is a turk; with it, he is her slave, and faithful. a wife must be many wives. if you would have your husband's love you must be all women to him. you must be ever new, with the dew of newness ever sparkling, a flower that never blooms to the fulness that fades. you must be a garden of flowers, ever new, ever fresh, ever different. and in your garden the man must never pluck the last of your posies.

“listen, little wife-woman. in the garden of love is a snake. it is the commonplace. stamp on its head, or it will destroy the garden. remember the name. commonplace. never be too intimate. men only seem gross. women are more gross than men.—no, do not argue, little new-wife. you are an infant woman. women are less delicate than men. do i not know? of their own husbands they will relate the most intimate love-secrets to other women. men never do this of their wives. explain it. there is only one way. in all things of love women are less delicate. it is their mistake. it is the father and the mother of the commonplace, and it is the commonplace, like a loathsome slug, that beslimes and destroys love.

“be delicate, little wife-woman. never be without your veil, without many veils. veil yourself in a thousand veils, all shimmering and glittering with costly textures and precious jewels. never let the last veil be drawn. against the morrow array yourself with more veils, ever more veils, veils without end. yet the many veils must not seem many. each veil must seem the only one between you and your hungry lover who will have nothing less than all of you. each time he must seem to get all, to tear aside the last veil that hides you. he must think so. it must not be so. then there will be no satiety, for on the morrow he will find another last veil that has escaped him.

“remember, each veil must seem the last and only one. always you must seem to abandon all to his arms; always you must reserve more that on the morrow and on all the morrows you may abandon. of such is variety, surprise, so that your man's pursuit will be everlasting, so that his eyes will look to you for newness, and not to other women. it was the freshness and the newness of your beauty and you, the mystery of you, that won your man. when a man has plucked and smelled all the sweetness of a flower, he looks for other flowers. it is his queerness. you must ever remain a flower almost plucked yet never plucked, stored with vats of sweet unbroached though ever broached.

“stupid women, and all are stupid, think the first winning of the man the final victory. then they settle down and grow fat, and stale, and dead, and heartbroken. alas, they are so stupid. but you, little infant-woman with your first victory, you must make your love-life an unending chain of victories. each day you must win your man again. and when you have won the last victory, when you can find no more to win, then ends love. finis is written, and your man wanders in strange gardens. remember, love must be kept insatiable. it must have an appetite knife-edged and never satisfied. you must feed your lover well, ah, very well, most well; give, give, yet send him away hungry to come back to you for more.”

mrs. higgins stood up suddenly and crossed out of the room. saxon had not failed to note the litheness and grace in that lean and withered body. she watched for mrs. higgins' return, and knew that the litheness and grace had not been imagined.

“scarcely have i told you the first letter in love's alphabet,” said mercedes higgins, as she reseated herself.

in her hands was a tiny instrument, beautifully grained and richly brown, which resembled a guitar save that it bore four strings. she swept them back and forth with rhythmic forefinger and lifted a voice, thin and mellow, in a fashion of melody that was strange, and in a foreign tongue, warm-voweled, all-voweled, and love-exciting. softly throbbing, voice and strings arose on sensuous crests of song, died away to whisperings and caresses, drifted through love-dusks and twilights, or swelled again to love-cries barbarically imperious in which were woven plaintive calls and madnesses of invitation and promise. it went through saxon until she was as this instrument, swept with passional strains. it seemed to her a dream, and almost was she dizzy, when mercedes higgins ceased.

“if your man had clasped the last of you, and if all of you were known to him as an old story, yet, did you sing that one song, as i have sung it, yet would his arms again go out to you and his eyes grow warm with the old mad lights. do you see? do you understand, little wife-woman?”

saxon could only nod, her lips too dry for speech.

“the golden koa, the king of woods,” mercedes was crooning over the instrument. “the ukulele—that is what the hawaiians call it, which means, my dear, the jumping flea. they are golden-fleshed, the hawaiians, a race of lovers, all in the warm cool of the tropic night where the trade winds blow.”

again she struck the strings. she sang in another language, which saxon deemed must be french. it was a gayly-devilish lilt, tripping and tickling. her large eyes at times grew larger and wilder, and again narrowed in enticement and wickedness. when she ended, she looked to saxon for a verdict.

“i don't like that one so well,” saxon said.

mercedes shrugged her shoulders.

“they all have their worth, little infant-woman with so much to learn. there are times when men may be won with wine. there are times when men may be won with the wine of song, so queer they are. la la, so many ways, so many ways. there are your pretties, my dear, your dainties. they are magic nets. no fisherman upon the sea ever tangled fish more successfully than we women with our flimsies. you are on the right path. i have seen men enmeshed by a corset cover no prettier, no daintier, than these of yours i have seen on the line.

“i have called the washing of fine linen an art. but it is not for itself alone. the greatest of the arts is the conquering of men. love is the sum of all the arts, as it is the reason for their existence. listen. in all times and ages have been women, great wise women. they did not need to be beautiful. greater than all woman's beauty was their wisdom. princes and potentates bowed down before them. nations battled over them. empires crashed because of them. religions were founded on them. aphrodite, astarte, the worships of the night—listen, infant-woman, of the great women who conquered worlds of men.”

and thereafter saxon listened, in a maze, to what almost seemed a wild farrago, save that the strange meaningless phrases were fraught with dim, mysterious significance. she caught glimmerings of profounds inexpressible and unthinkable that hinted connotations lawless and terrible. the woman's speech was a lava rush, scorching and searing; and saxon's cheeks, and forehead, and neck burned with a blush that continuously increased. she trembled with fear, suffered qualms of nausea, thought sometimes that she would faint, so madly reeled her brain; yet she could not tear herself away, and sat on and on, her sewing forgotten on her lap, staring with inward sight upon a nightmare vision beyond all imagining. at last, when it seemed she could endure no more, and while she was wetting her dry lips to cry out in protest, mercedes ceased.

“and here endeth the first lesson,” she said quite calmly, then laughed with a laughter that was tantalizing and tormenting. “what is the matter? you are not shocked?”

“i am frightened,” saxon quavered huskily, with a half-sob of nervousness. “you frighten me. i am very foolish, and i know so little, that i had never dreamed... that.”

mercedes nodded her head comprehendingly.

“it is indeed to be frightened at,” she said. “it is solemn; it is terrible; it is magnificent!”