'I am charmed to see you,' she said for the second time, when Amelie was seated; 'and I was furious the other day when you put me off coming to see you at Molesworth. Had you a prim party? If so, it was kind of you. Priggish, prim, and prudish--those are the qualities I dislike--probably,' she added with admirable candour, 'because I do not happen to be fortunate enough to possess them.' She paused a moment; then an idea seemed to strike her. 'And where and how is Bertie?' she asked. 'I haven't set eyes on him for months--not since the party in Long Island, in fact.' 'He said he hadn't seen you since then the other day,' said Amelie. 'No; I'm rather hurt, because at one time, you know, we were the greatest friends. I used to see him every day nearly. Then---' She got up with her slow, catlike movements, and stretched herself luxuriously, and laughed a lazy laugh of somewhat animal enjoyment. Something about Amelie's attitude--her reserve, her stiffness, which was altogether unlike what she remembered of her in Long Island--rather irritated her, and woke in her that _gamin_ spirit of mischief which was a very sensible ingredient in her nature. Amelie was putting her nose in the air, giving herself airs, and if there was one thing in the world Dorothy could not stand, it was that. Then, to fortify the mischievous spirit, she remembered the unexplained return of her present to Bertie. He, too, was giving himself airs; his nose was in the air. And when Dorothy saw a nose in the air, it was her habit to very rudely lay hold of it, so to speak, and rub it in the mud. Then, as a coping-stone to her nose-in-air theory, had come Amelie's refusal to let her come over to Molesworth. Decidedly this was a case for treatment. Also her love of making mischief--an occupation, we are led to infer, specially designed by Satan--was rather strong in her. So she laughed her laugh, and continued. 'Then he dropped me,' she said--' just opened his fingers and let me drop. I suppose I ought to have been broken, but I wasn't.' She had sat down again in a very long, low chair opposite Amelie, and noticed, with great inward amusement, the tense interest with which Amelie listened to her. 'I suppose Bertie's been playing about again,' she thought to herself. 'An amorous young man, but it isn't playing the game now he's married.' And, with only three-quarters of her mind bent on mischief, she went on: 'Yes, I suppose I ought to have been broken, but one gets tough, you know. But when I sent him a really charming wedding-present, and had it sent back without a word, I thought it was rather strong. That was being dropped with a vengeance.' 'Did Bertie do that?' asked Amelie. 'Yes, dear, unless you did. Back it came, anyhow. Now, if I had not been the sweetest-tempered, meekest little Moses that ever lived, I should have--well, made it unpleasant.'