Hermione wrinkled her forehead and contemplated her sister in deep thought. Cécile watched her in that confident anxiety with which a patient might regard a very young but intelligent physician who has just been put in possession of a history of the case. In force of character and what is commonly called "strength," Hermione was easily the senior of the three sisters, for all of her trifling nineteen years of inexperience. Besides her natural intelligence, Hermione had a good deal of theoretic knowledge of the world, its men and women, and the psychology of love, from the reading of books written by folk who should have understood their subject, and had frequently obtained this knowledge at a considerable price. Wherefore, after a few moments of thought, she observed, with all of the aplomb of forty years:-- "When a girl feels as you do toward a man with whom she is not really in love, it is time that he was told to clear out. Once removed from your life, you would very quickly get over it." Cécile looked dissatisfied. "But I am not at all sure that I want him out of my life," she said. "I would rather prefer that he came into it. The trouble is, he does neither the one thing nor the other." "Have you a clear idea of what you _do_ want?" asked Hermione. "No." "I have. What you would like would be to keep him dangling about, to be ultimately reduced to the same pulpy substance into which you have converted so many others. It can't be done. He's a different breed of cat." Cécile shivered. "Uncle Chris told me one day that this would happen to me." She sighed. "What shall I do, Hermione?" "Nothing," said Hermione. "Leave it to me." "To you!" "Yes. I will settle the matter." Hermione's pretty mouth assumed the austerity of a school-marm's. "What will you do?" "I will request his resignation." "Do you think that he will obey?" "Of course. He is a gentleman, and he has assured us right along that whenever we got tired of him we had only to say the word. I will say it." Cécile looked at her sister doubtfully. Hermione, returning the glance, observed that Cécile's eyelids were heavy. It was evident that she was feeling the reaction of her outburst and would now sleep. The recital of her woes had relieved the pressure within. But she was not entirely content with Hermione's solution. "Do you think that he is in love with me, Hermione?" she asked, with an odd shyness. "No. He is in love with nobody but himself. This thing amuses him. He is a natural-born seafarer with a soft streak in him, and nothing pleases him more than to sail around and lead a hard life and write mushy verse. He sent me fathoms of the same sort of harmless slush before transferring his delicate attentions to you. I chucked them back at him. Now go to bed." Cécile arose, wearily. "I knew that he had sent you verses," she said, "but I thought that maybe he had got our names mixed up."