"Well, with Lady Button-eyes for one. With your modest and bashful little model, for another." "Does he?" Then she began to laugh. "I’m glad he displays good taste, anyway! The little Cliff girl is charming." "Isn’t that rather a horrid and cynical thing to say?" demanded Stephanie, flushing brightly. "Why? I think she’s quite all right. Let them play together if they like. It’s none of my business. Are you, the high-priestess of tolerance, becoming intolerant?" she added laughingly. "No. I don’t care what he does. But I should think he’d prefer to frivol with one of his own class." "It’s a matter of chance," remarked Helen, brushing out her curly brown hair. "The beggar-maid or Vere-de-Vere—it’s all the same to a man if the girl is sufficiently attractive and amusing." "Amusing?" repeated Stephanie. "That is a humiliating rôle—to amuse a man." "If a girl doesn’t, men soon neglect her. Men go where they are amused. Everybody does. You do. I do. Why not?" Stephanie, still hotly flushed, shook out her beautiful chestnut hair and began to comb it viciously. "I don’t see how a common person can amuse a well-born man," she said. "It’s a reflection on us if we give them the opportunity," retorted Helen, laughing. "But if we’re not clever enough to hold the men of our own caste, then they’ll certainly go elsewhere for their amusement." "And good riddance!" "But who’s to replace them?" "I can get along perfectly without men." "Steve, you’re talking like a child! What happens to be the matter with you? Has anything gone wrong?" "Absolutely nothing——" She turned sharply; her comb caught in her hair and she jerked it free. Perhaps that accounted for the sudden glint of tears in her grey eyes. Helen slipped her arm around her, but the girl’s rigid body did not yield and she kept her head obstinately averted. "Are you getting tired of your idiotic bargain with Oswald?" asked Helen, gently. "No, I am not! _He_ never bothers me—never gets on my nerves—never is unjust—unkind——" "Who is?" "I don’t know.... Men in general—annoy me—men in—general." "None in particular?" "No.... It isn’t very agreeable to know that one’s brother goes about with a shameless dancer from the Follies." "Are you sure he does?" "Perfectly. He gives her a party in his studio, too, sometimes." "But there’s no harm in——" "A party for _two_! They drink—together." "Oh." "They drink and dance and eat, all by themselves! They take up the rugs and turn on the music and—and I don’t know what they do!—I—d-don’t know—I don’t—I don’t——!" Her head fell into her hands; she stood rigid, her body shaken by emotions too unhappy, too new, too vague for her youthful analysis. "I—I can’t bear to think of him that way——" she stammered, "—he was so straight and clean—so clean——" "Some men drift a little—sometimes——" "They say so.... I don’t know. I am too miserable about him—too unhappy——"