you will not, in all likelihood, compete successfully with them. You lack their aggressiveness and belligerence, which are probably indexed to an unusual amount, for a woman, of male hormones in their bodies. They will, through their cruelty and assertiveness, crush you in discussion, and, when it is to their purpose, demean and humiliate you.'
'I do not even enter into discussion with them,' she said. 'I am afraid.'
'You do not wish to be verbally whipped,' I said.
'I do not know what to think,' she said.
'Try to understand and interpret your feelings,' I said. 'Consider the possibility of being true to yourself.'
'Perhaps they are really women, only latently so,' said the girl.
'Perhaps,' I said. I shrugged.
'What is a woman, truly?' she asked, angrily. 'A slave?'
I was startled that she had asked this. I looked down at her. She was emotionally overwrought. There were tears in her eyes. I knew that I was supposed to reassure her and deny vehemently what had been suggested in her fantastic question. But I did not reassure her nor deny, as I was expected to, what she had suggested. Indeed, it suddenly struck me as not only strange that she had addressed this question, presumably a rhetorical question to me, but, too, that this was precisely the sort of thing which, for no reason I clearly understood, women of her political persuasion spent a great deal of time, excessively in my mind, denying. I wondered why they should be so concerned, so frequently and intensely, in denying that they were slaves. Why should they feel it necessary to deny this apparently fantastic allegation so often and so desperately?
'Do you think we are slaves?' she demanded.
I looked down at her. She was small and exquisitely beautiful. She wore a bit of lipstick and eye shadow. I could smell her perfume. The whiteness of her breasts, as I could see them, and of her throat, was striking. How marvelously the white sheath concealed and yet suggested her beauty. I wanted to tear it from her.
'Well?' she demanded.
'Perhaps,' I said.
She spun away from me, in fury and rage.
I did not speak to her then, but watched her, as she stood, angrily, outside the restaurant.
I considered her. Thoughts slipped through my mind. I wondered what she might look like, her clothing removed, standing on the tiles of a palace.
How strange it then seemed to me that society should ever have developed in such a way that such delicious and desirable creatures should have ever been permitted their freedom. Surely they belonged in steel collars at a man's feet.
She was aware of my eyes on her, but she did not look at me directly. She tossed her head. It was a lovely gesture I thought, of a girl who knew herself inspected, a slave's gesture.
'Are you going to apologize?' she asked.
'For what?' I asked.
'For saying that I -might be a slave,' she said.
'Oh,' I said. 'No,' I said.
'I hate you,' she said.
'All right,' I said. I continued to regard her, her clothing removed in my mind. I tried, in my mind, various sorts of collars and chains on her.
'You are a rude and hateful person,' she said.
'I'm sorry,' I said. I then considered how she might look in a market.
At last she turned to face me, angrily. 'What are you thinking about?' she asked.
'I was considering how you might look on a slave block,' I said, 'being exhibited by an auctioneer who knew his business.'
'How dare you say such a thing!' she cried.
'You asked me what I was thinking,' I said.
'You needn't have told me,' she said.
'You would prefer dishonesty?' I asked.
'You are the most hateful person I have ever met,' she said.
'I'm sorry,' I said.
She walked angrily to confront me, but then she looked away.
'I do not see any cabs,' she said.
'No,' I said.
She turned to face me.
'Was I pretty?' she asked.
'When?' I asked.
'In your imagination,' she said, archly.
'Sensational,' I said.
She smiled. 'How was I dressed?' she asked.
'You were exhibited naked,' I told her, 'as women are sold.'
'Oh,' she said.
'If it is any comfort,' I said, 'your wrists were joined by a long length of chain. The auctioneer showed you off with a whip.'
'With a whip?' she asked, shuddering.
'Yes,' I said.
'Then I would have had to obey him, wouldn't I?' she asked.
'You did obey him,' I said.
'Perfectly?' she asked.
'Perfectly,' I said.
'If I had not, he would have used the whip, wouldn't he?'
'Of course,' I said.
'Then it was wise of me to obey.'
'I would suppose so,' I said.
'I was pretty?' she asked.
'Marvelously exciting and beautiful,' I said.
She blushed, and smiled. How feminine she was.
'Jason,' she said.
'Yes,' I said.
'Would you have bought me?'
'What else was for sale?' I asked, smiling.
She struck me with sudden fury and my face stung. 'Hateful monster!' she said.
She turned angrily away from me.
'I am not a slave!' she said. 'I am not a slave!'
At this point I noticed that a car's headlights went on. It had been parked down the street about a block away. It had been there for some time.
'Hey!' I called, raising my arm, suddenly seeing that, as it approached, it was a cab.
The cab pulled to the curb.
'I will take you home,' I said.
'It is not necessary,' she said. She was angry, distressed, upset.
The driver came about and opened the back door on the right.
'I have been very rude,' I said. 'I'm really sorry. I did not mean to upset you.'
She did not even look at the driver. 'I'm not one of those females you have to patronize,' she said. 'I am a true woman.'
She climbed angrily, distressed, into the cab. The glimpse of her ankle was exciting. I forced from my mind the thought that its lovely slimness would look well inclosed in a loop and ring.
'Please give me an opportunity to apologize,' I begged. I was, myself, suddenly upset. I realzed that she
