“She’ll be here in a minute.... Because I keep forgetting things: today I forgot to say anything to my people all the way back to Puye. I didn’t go to sleep exactly: I just forgot. I didn’t tell them to turn their tickets in to the office and Margaret was furious because she had to call up all the rooms, and some of them weren’t in their rooms and she had to write dozens of notes.” “Lazy old thing. It’ll do her good. I get those vague streaks sometimes myself.” “Oh, _you_, it’s always a hangover with you.... Who’s that across the street?” Gin stood up to see over the drapes. “It’s that new fiancee of Bill Trewarth’s. She comes from Carolina or somewhere.” “She looks cute. I wonder what it would be like to go visiting for a whole summer just because you are somebody’s fiancee.” “I think it would feel very musty. You would be going to teas with his mother most of the time and on Sunday if you were very good he’d take you out to watch the polo.” Flo powdered her nose and considered. “I think it would be nice,” she said. “No responsibility.” “My God! You don’t mean it.... Hey, you, I want another piece of cake. You can’t mean it. Did you ever hear them talking?” “Sure I have. Well, what _else_ is there to do?” “This, or something like this in some other place. Why not?” “But then what about men?” “Haven’t you enough men, for heavens’ sake? _Those_ dumb brutes.” “No, I haven’t, and neither have you. You know perfectly well I haven’t: there aren’t enough to go round in this town.” Gin admitted that there were not enough men. “But,” she added, “it’s a law of nature in resort places. You can always go somewhere else if that’s all that’s worrying you. The question is, what do you really want?” “Oh,” said Flo, passionately, “I want a lot. I want to be rich and stupid like that little beast over there, and I want to be intelligent and interesting and comfortable like lots of the people around, and I’d very much like to be wicked and always wear black. The question is, what am I going to get? I’m tired of this sort of thing. At this rate I’ll start looking for Life, and then I’ll be a dirty little pushover like Rita.” “Why, Flo. Such language. You couldn’t be anyway, you’re not the type; you’re older than Rita. Anyway, she’s not a dirty little pushover. She just doesn’t worry about things. She has a good time.” “Really. I suppose you’d say I’d be better off if I _were_ the type?” “Good heavens,” said Gin impatiently. “I’m not advising you. I feel like a mess myself, lots of times. I hate Rita as much as you do, and you know it. Even if I could act that way I wouldn’t: I’m not sure I even want to. But what can you do about it? The trouble with you is——” “Your cigarette went out,” said Flo. “Yes, darling, what _is_ the trouble with me?”