etimes and altered Michael's arrangements; and when they
came they used to giggle in corners and Stella used to show off
detestably. Once Michael was so much vexed by a certain Dorothy that he
kissed her spitefully, and a commotion ensued from the middle of which
rose Miss Carthew, grey-eyed and august like Pallas Athene in The
Heroes. It seemed to Michael that altogether too much importance was
attached to this incident. He had merely kissed Dorothy in order to show
his contempt for her behaviour. One would think from the lecture given
by Miss Carthew that it was pleasant to kiss giggling little girls.
Michael felt thoroughly injured by the imputation of gallantry, and
sulked instead of giving reasons.

"I really think your mother is right," Miss Carthew said at last. "You
are quite different from the old Michael."

"I didn't want to kiss her," he cried, exasperated.

"Doesn't that make it all the worse?" Miss Carthew suggested.

Michael shrugged his shoulders feeling powerless to contend with all
this stupidity of opinion.

"Surely," said Miss Carthew at last, "Don Quixote or General Mace or
Henry V wouldn't have kissed people against their will in order to be
spiteful."

"They might," argued Michael; "if rotten little girls came to tea and
made them angry."

"I will not have that word 'rotten' used in front of me," Miss Carthew
said.

"Well, fat-headed then," Michael proposed as a euphemism.

"The truth is," Miss Carthew pointed out, "you were angry because you
couldn't have the Macalisters to tea and you vented your anger on poor
Stella and her friends. I call it mean and unchivalrous."

"Well, Stella goes to mother and asks for Dorothy to come to tea, when
you told me I could have the Macalisters, and I don't see why I should
always have to give way."

"Boys always give way to girls," generalized Miss Carthew.

"I don't believe they do nowadays," said Michael.

"I see it's hopeless to argue any more. I'm sorry you won't see you're
in the wrong. It makes me feel disappointed."

Michael again shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't see how I can possibly ask your mother to let Nancy stay here
next Christmas. I suppose you'll be trying to kiss her."

Michael really had to laugh at this.

"Why, I like Nancy awfully," he said. "And we both think kissing is
fearful rot--I mean frightfully stupid. But I won't do it again, Miss
Carthew. I'm sorry. I am really."

There was one great advantage in dealing wit