She was about the height of a well-grown girl of twelve or thirteen, and had appealing eyes of delf blue, and a round face of peachy softness. Her hair was undeniably red, of a shade which put to shame such verbal mitigations as "auburn" or "golden," and was of tropic luxuriance and anarchistic disposition. It curled and uncurled and strayed all about her brow and neck like an explosion of spun lava. For the rest, had she really been a little girl of twelve, one would feel free to describe her as fat and roly-poly; but in the case of a young spinster of somewhere in her third decade, well-gowned and stayed and otherwise in physical subjection to the modiste, and singing of love like a diva, what can one say? No more than this, perhaps, that the fortunate man who carries her off the field a prize, will realize before he has got very far that he has captured something. "Love, once again, meet me once again! Old love is waking; shall it wake in vain!" Thus sang Miss Scarlett, ending with a fervid trill. Then she turned about, sitting with her feet very wide apart, and faced Doctor Brown. "Dissecting table, indeed!" she burst forth. "I tell you, it's blasphemy to speak of making such use of a nice man! But, if I could pick 'em out, so as to be sure the right ones were dissected, I don't know but I'd agree." Flossie Smith said that some of them ought to be put to _some_ use; and Doctor Brown, having reminded the company of her profession, merely laughed again. "Here I am down from Allentown," Miss Scarlett proceeded, "on purpose to be stayed with flagons and comforted with apples, as I have been here in the past. I wanted to have a good sort of lackadaisical time with the nice boys here, and I've had to stay--I don't know how long--on a famine diet of women and girls, with Ella Wheeler for sauce. It makes me swearing mad!" "I like that now!" said Flossie. "I really like that!" "Well, I don't," Miss Scarlett went on. "I'm not used to it. To be left alone--oh, of course Billy Cox has been trying to butt in, but what good is he? My Hercules, my Roman Antony, who won my trusting heart last summer, at a time when I had just got it back from what I had thought a final and total loss--I find him away, and when he gets back, because, forsooth, he happens to be newly engaged, he's so wrapped up in a little thing like that, that he might as well have stayed in New York. He doesn't respond when I ring up his office on the telephone; he doesn't see me on the street---or, at least, only once--he seems scared. I've a good mind to give him something to _be_ scared about!" "Your condition," said the doctor, "is verging on the pathological." "I don't know what path it's verging on," was the reply, "but it isn't the primrose path of dalliance. There's some mystery in it."