To his surprise he found himself thinking of her after he had gone to bed that night, and in the morning when he woke he was bothered to know whether he had dreamed about Hilma's fine white arms over night.

Then abruptly he had lost patience with himself for being so occupied with the subject, raging and furious with all the breed of feemales--a fine way for a man to waste his time.

He had had his experience with the timid little creature in the glove-cleaning establishment in Sacramento.

That was enough.

Feemales! Rot! None of them in HIS, thank you.