is a vital spirit; she chafes at
chains; and she is smarting from a sense of inferiority. There is a
thirst for power in her little body that may make her either an actress
or a politician."

"Now, it seems to me that if she has any sense it is one of superiority.
She treated me like a brick under her feet."

For a minute Corinna was silent. The smile on her lips had grown
tenderly humorous; and there was a softness in her eyes which made him
sorry that he had not known her when he was a child. "Do you know what
she told me to-day?" she said. "She studies a page of the dictionary
every morning, and she tries to remember and practise all day the new
words that she learns. She is now in the letter M."

A peal of merriment interrupted her. "That explains it!" exclaimed
Stephen with unaffected delight, "maneuver--misinformation--multitude--"

"So she has practised on you too?"

"Oh, they all practise on me," he retorted. "It is what I was made for."

"Well, as long as it is only words, you are safe, I suppose."

He denied this with a gesture. "It is everything you can possibly
practise with--from puddings to pigeons."

"My poor dear, so you have been eating Margaret's puddings. Weren't they
good ones?"

"Oh, perfection! But I wasn't thinking of Margaret."

"I know you weren't. For your mother's sake I wish that you were."

His face looked suddenly tired. "Margaret is perfection, I know; but I
feel sometimes that only perfect people can endure perfection."

"Yes, I know." Her smile had faded now. "I admire Margaret tremendously,
but I feel closer to Patty."

"Perhaps. I am not sure. Somehow I have been sure of nothing since I
came out of the trenches--least of all of myself. I am trying to find
out now what I am in reality."

As he rose to go she held out her hand. "I think,--I am not certain, but
I think," she responded gaily, "that Patty's dictionary may give you the
definition."

CHAPTER VII

CORINNA GOES TO WAR

"Yes, I've had a mean life," thought Corinna, while she stood before her
mirror carefully placing a patch on her cheek. In her narrow gown of
black velvet, with the silver heels of her slippers shining beneath the
transparent draperies, she had more than ever the look of festival, of
October splendour. If her beauty had lost in roundness and softness, it
had gained immeasurably in authority, in that air of having been a part
of great events, of historic moments which clung to her li