“Perhaps,” said Staniford. “At any rate, I'm so tired of the blonde type in fiction that I rather like the other thing in life. Every novelist runs a blonde heroine; I wonder why. This girl has the clear Southern pallor; she's of the olive hue; and her eyes are black as sloes,--not that I know what sloes are. Did she remind you of anything in particular?” “Yes; a little of Faed's Evangeline, as she sat in the door-way of the warehouse yesterday.” “Exactly. I wish the picture were more of a picture; but I don't know that it matters. _She's_ more of a picture.” “'Pretty as a bird,' the captain said.” “Bird isn't bad. But the bird is in her manner. There's something tranquilly alert in her manner that's like a bird; like a bird that lingers on its perch, looking at you over its shoulder, if you come up behind. That trick of the heavily lifted, half lifted eyelids,--I wonder if it's a trick. The long lashes can't be; she can't make them curl up at the edges. Blood,--Lurella Blood. And she wants to know.” Staniford's voice fell thoughtful. “She's more slender than Faed's Evangeline. Faed painted rather too fat a sufferer on that tombstone. Lurella Blood has a very pretty figure. Lurella. Why Lurella?” “Oh, come, Staniford!” cried Dunham. “It isn't fair to call the girl by that jingle without some ground for it.” “I'm sure her name's Lurella, for she wanted to know. Besides, there's as much sense in it as there is in any name. It sounds very well. Lurella. It is mere prejudice that condemns the novel collocation of syllables.” “I wonder what she's thinking of now,--what's passing in her mind,” mused Dunham aloud. “_You_ want to know, too, do you?” mocked his friend. “I'll tell you what: processions of young men so long that they are an hour getting by a given point. That's what's passing in every girl's mind--when she's thinking. It's perfectly right. Processsions of young girls are similarly passing in our stately and spacious intellects. It's the chief business of the youth of one sex to think of the youth of the other sex.” “Oh, yes, I know,” assented Dunham; “and I believe in it, too--” “Of course you do, you wicked wretch, you abandoned Lovelace, you bruiser of ladies' hearts! You hope the procession is composed entirely of yourself. What would the divine Hibbard say to your goings-on?” “Oh, don't, Staniford! It isn't fair,” pleaded Dunham, with the flattered laugh which the best of men give when falsely attainted of gallantry. “I was wondering whether she was feeling homesick, or strange, or--”