girl, with deep grey eyes and wavy brown hair
and a sea-shell complexion. I absently swallowed the abomination she
handed me, for I was looking at her over the teacup and wondering how
an exquisite-minded gentleman like Dale could forsake her for a Lola
Brandt. It was not as if Maisie were an empty-headed, empty-natured
little girl. She is a young person of sense, education, and character.
She also adores musical comedy and a band at dinner: an excellent thing
in woman--when she is very young.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.

"Because, my dear Maisie," said I, "you are good to look upon. You are
also dropping a hairpin."

She hastily secured the dangling thing. "I did my hair anyhow to-day,"
she explained.

Again I thought of Dale's tie and socks. The signs of a lover's
"careless desolation," described by Rosalind so minutely, can still be
detected in modern youth of both sexes. I did not pursue the question,
but alluded to autumn gaieties. She spoke of them without enthusiasm.
Miss Somebody's wedding was very dull, and Mrs. Somebody Else's dance
manned with vile and vacuous dancers. At the Opera the greatest of
German sopranos sang false. All human institutions had taken a crooked
turn, and her cat could not be persuaded to pay the commonest attention
to its kittens. Then she asked me nonchalantly:

"Have you seen anything of Dale lately?"

"He was working with me this morning. I've been away, you know."

"I forgot."

"When did you last see him?" I asked.

"Oh, ages ago! He has not been near us for weeks. We used to be such
friends. I don't think it's very polite of him, do you?"

"I'll order him to call forthwith," said I.

"Oh, please don't! If he won't come of his own accord--I don't want to
see him particularly."

She tossed her shapely head and looked at me bravely.

"You are quite right," said I. "Dale's a selfish, ill-mannered young
cub."

"He isn't!" she flashed. "How dare you say such things about him!"

I smiled and took both her hands--one of them held a piece of brown
bread-and-butter.

"My dear," said I, "model yourself on Little Bo-Peep. I don't know who
gave her the famous bit of advice, but I think it was I myself in a
pastoral incarnation. I had a woolly cloak and a crook, and she was like
a Dresden china figure--the image of you."

Her eyes swam, but she laughed and said I was good to her. I said:

"The man who wouldn't be good to you is an unhung villain."