"You're my cousin," sobbed Bernice. "I'm v-v-visiting you. I was to stay a month, and if I go home my mother will know and she'll wah-wonder---" Marjorie waited until the shower of broken words collapsed into little sniffles. "I'll give you my month's allowance," she said coldly, "and you can spend this last week anywhere you want. There's a very nice hotel---" Bernice's sobs rose to a flute note, and rising of a sudden she fled from the room. An hour later, while Marjorie was in the library absorbed in composing one of those non-committal marvelously elusive letters that only a young girl can write, Bernice reappeared, very red-eyed, and consciously calm. She cast no glance at Marjorie but took a book at random from the shelf and sat down as if to read. Marjorie seemed absorbed in her letter and continued writing. When the clock showed noon Bernice closed her book with a snap. "I suppose I'd better get my railroad ticket." This was not the beginning of the speech she had rehearsed up-stairs, but as Marjorie was not getting her cues--wasn't urging her to be reasonable; it's an a mistake--it was the best opening she could muster. "Just wait till I finish this letter," said Marjorie without looking round. "I want to get it off in the next mail." After another minute, during which her pen scratched busily, she turned round and relaxed with an air of "at your service." Again Bernice had to speak. "Do you want me to go home?" "Well," said Marjorie, considering, "I suppose if you're not having a good time you'd better go. No use being miserable." "Don't you think common kindness---" "Oh, please don't quote 'Little Women'!" cried Marjorie impatiently. "That's out of style." "You think so?" "Heavens, yes! What modern girl could live like those inane females?" "They were the models for our mothers." Marjorie laughed. "Yes, they were--not! Besides, our mothers were all very well in their way, but they know very little about their daughters' problems." Bernice drew herself up. "Please don't talk about my mother." Marjorie laughed. "I don't think I mentioned her." Bernice felt that she was being led away from her subject. "Do you think you've treated me very well?" "I've done my best. You're rather hard material to work with." The lids of Bernice's eyes reddened. "I think you're hard and selfish, and you haven't a feminine quality in you." "Oh, my Lord!" cried Marjorie in desperation "You little nut! Girls like you are responsible for all the tiresome colorless marriages; all those ghastly inefficiencies that pass as feminine qualities. What a blow it must be when a man with imagination marries the beautiful bundle of clothes that he's been building ideals round, and finds that she's just a weak, whining, cowardly mass of affectations!" Bernice's mouth had slipped half open. "The womanly woman!" continued Marjorie. "Her whole early life is occupied in whining criticisms of girls like me who really do have a good time."