I have often read that women do not and cannot love men, but only love to be loved by them. Only a man could have been stupid enough to say that; and, then he didn't know. The woman hadn't told him. "I say! Haven't you got on a new frock to-night? My word, it's scrumptious!" remarked The Author, after dinner. I was wearing a black-and-blue frock, and he had seen it before, as I explained with some surprise. He adjusted his glasses, frowned, and shook his head. "I am becoming unobservant," he said crossly. "This place is playing the very deuce with my mental processes! But stay: surely your hair is arranged differently? It wasn't brought over your ears like that, the first time I saw you, I know it wasn't!" "It is curled a little and fluffed a little; that's what makes it look different," I told him patiently. "Then that frock is curled a little and fluffed a little, and that's what makes it look different, too," The Author decided, and stared at me critically. "You are improving," he told me, with condescension. "You are _not_!" I was goaded to reply. The Author merely grinned. "Do you know," he asked, "if that man Jelnik is coming to-night? I hope so. Unusual man. Can't think why he buries himself here! Our old friend Gatchell doesn't seem to admire him. I wonder why?" "I can't possibly imagine," I replied equably, "unless it is that the judge grows old." "Hah!" The Author's eyebrows went up truculently. "And is it a sign of advancing age and mental decrepitude not to admire this fellow?" But I laughed at him. "You're all alike, you women." A wicked light snapped into his eyes. "Hear, dear lady, the Bard of the Congaree, the Poet Laureate of South Carolina, Coogle for your benefit," hissed The Author, and repeated, balefully: Alas, poor woman, with eyes of sparkling fire, Thy heart is often won by mankind's gay attire! So weak thou art, so very weak at best, Thou canst not look beyond a satin-lined vest! I've seen thee ofttimes cast a-winning glance, And be carried away, as it were within a trance, By the gay apparel of some dishonest youth Whose bosom heaved with not a single truth! He was so outrageously funny that I forgave his impertinence. His face relaxed, and his eyes twinkled. He was in high feather the remainder of the evening. He was, in fact, so good-humoredly witty that the boys and girls Alicia had brought home clustered about him like golden bees. "Miss Smith," whispered Miss Emmeline, under cover of their laughter, "may I have a word with you?" We drifted into the library; and she seated herself, folded her hands, and said tremulously: