True, he remained in the dark as to what precisely her idea of self-respect was. Conflicting and irreconcilable inferences were the only ones he could draw from the conduct of a girl who lived in the Lorillard tenements, moved in the Outlaws’ circle, professed to be hostile to marriage, yet stood on her dignity withal, in quite a traditional womanly way. But Claude was not the man to waste time on psychological conundrums. Besides, he was too happy to be critical. He was back in the good graces of Janet, or rather, as he soon paraphrased the case, she was back in his. He flattered himself that he was the dominant influence over a girl who was a piquant, if puzzling, amalgam of Brooklyn and Bohemia. In the next two weeks, his position as Janet’s particular friend was established beyond dispute. Few afternoons passed in which his motor car did not drive up to the Lorillard and whirl her away to a place of gayety or recreation. The chief rival claimant upon her time was Robert Lloyd. But as Claude, in point of social advantages and personal graces, far outdistanced him, this rivalry was not taken seriously by any of the three persons concerned, least of all by Claude. One day, to Cornelia’s astonishment, Janet announced that she had planned to spend the afternoon, not with Claude, but with Robert. She made the announcement from a tuffet on which she sat soberly, while reading a book by Mrs. Beatrice Webb. "Is this your pensive day?" asked Cornelia, ironically. "Yes," replied Janet. "Robert complains that I’m neglecting him, and consequently my education. I think I ought to give him a chance to prove both assertions. So I’ve asked him to come here this afternoon. I can’t spend all my days in sky-larking, can I?" "My dear, ’youth’s a stuff will not endure.’ If you choose Mrs. Sidney Webb and Robert Lloyd rather than Claude Fontaine, the choice is your own. Of course, Robert is very entertaining. He pledges you with facts and figures. But when I was a rosebud like you, Araminta, I preferred a man who drank to me only with his eyes." "Cornelia, I adore being made love to; yet I get horribly tired of it—even of Claude’s love making—when it’s kept up too long. And I hate facts and figures; yet Robert’s never bore me." "What a morbid symptom, my dear!" "Oh, don’t say that. I feel sure it’s quite a natural condition, in my case. But perhaps there’s a quality left out of me, a quality that other women possess." Janet was clearly eager to carry on her self-analysis, but Cornelia gave no sign of sharing this eagerness.