“Sixteen!” repeated Miss Flossy, with an infinite and uncontrollable scorn, “yes, and I’m the kind of sixteen that stays sixteen till your elder sister’s married. I was eighteen years old on the third of last December—unless they began to double on me before I was old enough to know the difference—it would be just like Mama to play it on me in some such way,” she concluded, reflectively. “Eighteen years old!” said the young man. “The deuce!” Do not think that he was an ill–bred young man. He was merely astonished, and he had much more astonishment ahead of him. He mused for a moment. “Well,” he said, “what’s your plan of campaign? I am to—to discover you.” “Yes,” said Miss Flossy, calmly, “and to flirt with me like fun.” “And may I ask what attitude you are to take when you are—discovered?” “Certainly,” replied the imperturbable Flossy. “I am going to dangle you.” “To—to dangle me?” “As a conquest, don’t you know. Let you hang round and laugh at you.” “Oh, indeed?” “There, don’t be wounded in your masculine pride. You might as well face the situation. You don’t think that Pauline’s in love with you, do you?” “No!” groaned the young man. “But you’ve got lots of money. Mr. Brown has got lots more. You’re eager. Brown is coy. That’s the reason that Brown is in the boat and you are on the cold, cold shore, talking to Little Sister. Now if Little Sister jumps at you, why, she’s simply taking Big Sister’s leavings; it’s all in the family, any way, and there’s no jealousy, and Pauline can devote her whole mind to Brown. There, _don’t_ look so limp. You men are simply childish. Now, after you’ve asked me to marry you—“ “Oh, I’m to ask you to marry me?” “Certainly. You needn’t look frightened, now. I won’t accept you. But then you are to go around like a wet cat, and mope, and hang on worse then ever. Then Big Sister will see that she can’t afford to take that sort of thing from Little Sister, and then—there’s your chance.” “Oh, there’s my chance, is it?” said Mr. Morpeth. He seemed to have fallen into the habit of repetition. “There’s your _only_ chance,” said Miss Flossy, with decision. Mr. Morpeth meditated. He looked at the lake, where there was no longer sign or sound of the canoe, and he looked at Miss Flossy, who sat calm, self–confident and careless, on the string–piece of the dock. “I don’t know how feasible—” he began. “It’s feasible,” said Miss Flossy, with decision. “Of course Pauline will write to Mama, and of course Mama will write and scold me. But she’s got to stay in New York, and nurse Papa’s gout; and the Miss Redingtons are all the chaperons we’ve got up here, and they don’t amount to any thing—so I don’t care.” “But why,” inquired the young man; and his tone suggested a complete abandonment to Miss Flossy’s idea: “why should you take so much trouble for _me_?”