"This war is worse than tiresome; it's perfectly hateful," Janet Cameron said, twisting her yellow curls about her fingers and pouting disconsolately; "it is making old maids of us whether the men wish it or not. Here I am, eighteen this coming Whitsuntide, and not a genuine suitor have I had." "Fie, Janet! Where is Billy Bryce?" asked Joscelyn, in whose room the two sat. "Billy has loved you from your pinafore days." "That baby?" with a scornful accent. "You did not use to think him such a baby." "Perchance not; for he is a whole six months older than I, and that is a mighty age!" "What manner of lover do you want now?" "Oh, a grown man--a big strong fellow with a will of his own, who never asks for a kiss, but just takes it." "You little minx! what know you of kissing menfolk?" "Nothing--that is just it--" "Janet!" "--for when Billy blushes like a peony, and politely and decorously begs to kiss my cheek, I am in duty bound to look shocked, and blush back, and say no; nothing else would satisfy my dignity, though I could pinch him for it! That is why I call him a baby," stoutly maintained the girl, her lips curling, and her voice full of mockery. "He does not wish to forget his manners." "To say always 'if you please' for tender favours is not the manners for a lover." "Since you are so wise, tell me what sort of manners a lover should have." "Oh, you know without the telling! He ought to be headstrong and masterful and a--a bold robber when it comes to claiming favours from his lady; and full of mock repentance after the theft." "Well, when Billy comes from the war, I shall give him a hint as to how to mend his behaviour." "An you did, I should hate you. Why, he does not even know how to write to a girl. Here is a letter from him in which he sends his duty to his mother--did you ever hear of such idiocy? A love-letter with a message like that! A love letter should be private and confidential, filled full of such sweetness that one pair of eyes alone should read it; and he sends his duty to his mother, forsooth! Why, that prying old creature would insist upon reading every line written here if I gave her the message--and Heaven knows she might, and be none the wiser, for all of sentiment there is in it is this last sentence, 'I would send you my love, an I dared; but I would not for the world make you angry or hurt your maidenly modesty.' Now that is a love-letter for you!" "Well, it is not deliriously passionate," admitted Joscelyn. "It is deliriously idiotic. I'd just have him understand that my modesty is not quite so thin-skinned as he imagines." Joscelyn fell back in her chair, shrieking with laughter, while the yellow-headed tempest before the glass shook her curls, and emphasized her words with a scouting gesture, "Why, Joscelyn, if I were that boy's great-grandmother, he could not treat me with more deferential respect." "I think it is beautiful in him."