n. I must admit that it strikes me as an advertisement of grief
and about on a par with the wailing of the East. I don't see why we
should go about inviting the world to weep. Our sorrows are our own
affairs, after all, like our joys. We might quite as reasonably dress in
white when a son and heir is born to us."

"Oh, I'm so glad you think so," said Flamby, and her voice was rather
tremulous. "I loved mother more than anything in the world, but I hate
to be reminded that she is dead by everybody who looks at me."

Don grasped her hand and tucked it confidently under his arm. "Your
father was a wise man. Never be ashamed of following his advice, Flamby.
May I call you Flamby? You seem so very grown-up, with your hair all
tucked away under that black hat."

"I'm nearly eighteen, but I should hate you to call me Miss Duveen.
Nobody ever calls me Miss Duveen, except people who don't like me."

"They must be very few."

"Not so few," said Flamby thoughtfully. "I think it's my hair that does
it."

"That makes people dislike you?"

"Yes. Other women hate my hair."

"That is a compliment, Flamby."

"But isn't it horrible? Women are nasty. I wish I were a man."

Don laughed loudly, squeezing Flamby's hand more firmly under his arm.
"You would have made a deuce of a boy," he said. "I wonder if we should
have been friends."

"I don't think so," replied Flamby pensively.

"Eh!" cried Don, turning to her--"why not?"

"Well you treat women so kindly, and if I were a man I should treat them
so differently."

"How do you know that I treat women kindly?"

"You are very kind to me."

"Ha!" laughed Don. "You call yourself a woman? Why you are only a kid!"

"But I'm a wise kid," replied Flamby saucily, the old elfin light in her
eyes. "I know what beasts women are to one another, and I often hate
myself because I'm a little beast, too."

"I don't believe it."

"That's because you are one of those nice men who deserve to know
better."

Don leaned back in the cab and laughed until tears came to his eyes. He
had encouraged this conversation with the purpose of diverting Flamby's
mind from her sorrow, and he was glad to have succeeded so well. "Do men
hate you, too," he asked.

"No, I get on much better with men. There are some fearful rotters, of
course, but most men are honest enough if you are honest with them."

"_Honi soit qui mal y pense_," murmured Don, slowly recovering from his
fit of laughter.

"_Ipsis