“She hadn’t,” said the girl. “I heard them make it up last evening, after you went upstairs.” The young man clean forgot himself. “She’s the most heartless coquette in the world!” he cried, and clinched his hands. “She is all that,” said the young person on the string–piece of the dock, “and more too. And yet, I suppose, you want her all the same?” “I’m afraid I do,” said the young man, miserably. “Well,” said the girl, putting her shoe on again, and beginning to tie it up, “I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Morpeth. You’ve been hanging around Pauline for a year, and you are the only one of the men she keeps on a string who hasn’t snubbed me. Now, if you want me to, I’ll give you a lift.” “A—a—_what_?” “A lift. You’re wasting your time. Pauline has no use for devotion. It’s a drug in the market with her—has been for five seasons. There’s only one way to get her worked up. Two fellows tried it, and they nearly got there; but they weren’t game enough to stay to the bitter end. I think you’re game, and I’ll tell you. You’ve got to make her jealous.” “Make her jealous of me?” “No!” said his friend, with infinite scorn; “make her jealous of the other girl. _Oh!_ but you men are stupid!” The young man pondered a moment. “Well, Flossy,” he began, and then he became conscious of a sudden change in the atmosphere, and perceived that the young lady was regarding him with a look that might have chilled his soul. “Miss Flossy—Miss Belton—” he hastily corrected himself. Winter promptly changed to Summer in Miss Flossy Belton’s expressive face. “Your scheme,” he went on, “is a good one. Only—it involves the discovery of another girl.” “Yes,” assented Miss Flossy, cheerfully. “Well,” said the young man, “doesn’t it strike you that if I were to develop a sudden admiration for any one of these other young ladies whose charms I have hitherto neglected, it would come tardy off—lack artistic verisimilitude, so to speak?” “Rather,” was Miss Flossy’s prompt and frank response; “especially as there isn’t one of them fit to flirt with.” “Well, then, where am I to discover the girl?” Miss Flossy untied and retied her shoe. Then she said, calmly: “What’s the matter with—” a hardly perceptible hesitation—“_me?_” “With _you?_” Mr. Morpeth was startled out of his manners. “Yes!” Mr. Morpeth simply stared. “Perhaps,” suggested Miss Flossy, “I’m not good–looking enough?” “You are good–looking enough,” replied Mr. Morpeth, recovering himself, “for _anything_—” and he threw a convincing emphasis into the last word as he took what was probably his first real inspection of his adored one’s junior—“but—aren’t you a trifle—young?” “How old do you suppose I am?” “I know. Your sister told me. You are sixteen.”