“Well, I’m telling you about them now. You might as well know. And the better a man is the more he likes imitation women, and Nels is just as bad as any of them, and that’s why he’s fallen so hard for Alice Winn. First he fell for the highbrow books. He really believes that she reads ’em. Then she told him all about her aristocratic family in Kentucky, who fought and fought to keep her from being an artist, but she must ‘live her own life,’ even if she had to brave the hardships of a great city with not a thing to live on except the income she gets from home. And then, of course, she scorns everything except real art—she would never stoop to a fashion drawing or commercial art of any kind. Her artistic temperament would not allow it. She is working on a mural—yes, indeed—of course it never has and never will go any further than a rough sketch and a lot of conversation in her comfortable studio, but Nels doesn’t know that. He and every other man she talks to believes that she is really working on something big. And then she is _such_ a lover of beauty. She must have flowers in her studio at all times. She simply couldn’t live without flowers. And Nels—Nels who never bought me even a bunch of violets at Easter time—is pawning his clothes to buy her roses. I think that’s what hurts most. I’m just a practical old thing, and I’ve never wanted to do anything at all but work with him and for him, and go to dinner with him ‘Dutch’—and so you see I am of no value—and she, who has never done a useful thing in her whole life, has completely fascinated him. He isn’t worth all this. I ought not to care—I don’t care—I’m just plain angry.” Tears were overflowing the blue eyes of the “just plain angry” girl and Ruth feared a public exhibition. They had reached the restaurant and she feared the curious eyes inside. “Let’s not eat here today, Dorothy. You need a change, that’s all, so why not take the afternoon off? We could go to your studio. I’ve never been there, you know. Couldn’t we have lunch there?” “We could buy it at the ‘delly’ ’round the corner,” said Dorothy, her round face clearing a bit. “And let’s buy some flowers first; if Nels shows up we can pretend a man sent them.” “That’s ‘woman stuff’; I don’t think I ought—but—” “Just for this once,” persisted Ruth, leading the way into the nearest flower shop. “I don’t like to have you spend money on me. I don’t like to have anything that I can’t pay for myself.” “That’s selfish, and vain. Perhaps that’s why Nels is with Alice.” “I suppose so. You know they’re so stupid, men. They believe everything you tell them. I’ve told Nels what a practical worker I am and how independent I am and he believes me, without ever trying to prove it; and she’s told him that she is an impractical, artistic dreamer and he believes that, too, though if he’d only think for just a minute he’d know that she’s a mercenary schemer, not an artistic dreamer.” “Do you like these pink ones?”