It was brightly sunny, but, although we’re nearly in June now, there was a nip of cold in the breeze; the smile of a flirt—of a “cold coquette,” as Major Montresor described me once. I wonder what _he’d_ think if ever he met me again? Probably that it was just like little Monica to “pull off” making a good match with another froggy-natured person. I laughed at this as I was walking along to the corner where I get the motor-bus. After all, there’s nothing to do but laugh at it—at the whole affair. Actually, it was a momentous choice to have thrust upon any girl; and it might have cruelly embarrassing side-issues. But what’s the good of dwelling on momentous and cruel aspects of subjects that _have_ a comic side to them? The only way is to look hard at that comic side—to see the joke, the whole joke, and, most important of all, _nothing but the joke_. I felt satisfactorily strung up to the coming “fun” of the situation when I got into the typists’ dressing-room at the Near Oriental. Here I found Miss Holt listening to Miss Smith, evidently a little headachy and nervous, attempting to “stand up” to Miss Robinson in some argument. “The matter with _you_,” she was saying pettishly, “is that you’re setting up to be a _man_-hater!” “Setting up? No such luck,” said Miss Robinson, maddeningly good-tempered. “If _I_ could ever see a fellow I didn’t think was awful, I’d begin thinking of setting up. But where _are_ all the men, good gracious? What does a girl ever see, working in holes of offices? Weeds! Indoor weeds, smelling of stale Virginians and wearing Number Thirteen collars.” “Collars aren’t anything!” Miss Smith flushed an angry pink. “No; but what they go round are. And I must say I like to see a chap with a good, thick, strong-looking one (that’s why all the _nice_ girls love a sailor, Smithie) with plenty of sunburn and no spots on it, and—Hul-_lo_, Miss Trant!” I had turned up at the right moment to prevent a squabble—I and my brand-new hat bought out of Chérisette’s window, no less! and provided by the princely salary. “I say, Miss Trant, my child, you’re blossoming out!” commented Miss Holt, all eyes and envy. “How much did that roof cost you? It’s a good one.” “It _is_ rather a good one,” I admitted quietly. “I’m so glad you like it.” But I said no more until the morning’s work was over and we had trooped back into the dressing-room to get ready for going out at one o’clock. Then: “I can’t come to lunch to-day,” I said, drawing on the deliciously “fresh”-feeling white gloves I’d bought for myself at the same time as the hat, and giving a glance round the dressing-room to make sure that they all took in the next announcement. “I’m going out.” “Who with?” seemed to burst, of its own accord, from three pairs of lips at once. Drawing myself up to what there is of my full height, I smothered an inclination to giggle foolishly, and answered with starchy dignity, “Since you _must_ know, I’m going out to lunch with Still Waters.”