Alice, instead of replying, made a face at herself in the glass; then, folding her arms across her bosom and swaying from side to side two or three times, sailed off in a waltz around the room. “The trouble with you, my dear, is simply this,”—and she stood before her friend with arms akimbo,—“you are devoid of common sense.” And off she capered again, this time in the rhythm of the polka. “Oh, I’m so happy!” cried she, clasping her hands and rolling up her eyes. “Because I have no common sense?” “Because I have so much! I’ve lots! _Oceans_!” And she spread out her arms. Catching sight of her own waving arms in the mirror, she, like the kaleidoscope, changed in an instant. Standing on her left foot, she described, with the extended toe of her right, an elaborate semicircle, and ended with a profound courtesy, her young face corrugated, meanwhile, with that professional grin of the equestrienne, which, among the horsical, passes for a smile. Turning then to Mary, she repeated the movement. “Behold,” cried she, drawing herself up to her full height,—“behold the Empress of the Arena! The Champion Bare-back Rider of the World!” “I don’t know so much about the champion part of it, but of the bare back there can be little doubt.” “Well said, Little Dumpling! I must admit that my costume is rather meagre.” “Alice, you ought to be able to explain it if anybody can,—how do people come to be ‘privileged characters,’ as they are called? You do whatever you please, and cut all sorts of crazy antics, and no one ever thinks you foolish, or even undignified; and then, you say whatever you think, yet no one can get angry with you. You tell me, to my face, that I am destitute of common sense—” “Totally, that’s a fact.” “And yet I am not the least bit vexed?” “The simplest thing imaginable. Listen, and I will explain. As to the crazy antics, as you are pleased to term my joyous, lamb-like friskings, of course you cannot expect me to have the face to stand up here and say that they do not offend, because of the bewitching, inborn grace which characterizes my every movement?” “Naturally.” “Of course. And you will naturally pardon my not alluding to what I can’t help.” “Poor thing!” “Of course. I was born so; and that’s the end of that. Now, as to your not being hurt by my telling you that plain truth about yourself—” “My destitution as regards—” “Common sense—yes,—I think you yourself must understand it.” “Because you told me, first, that I had a streak of genius,—flatterer?” “Precisely; I credit you with bullion, and you are not worried that I should deny you the small change of every-day life. You see I am as deep as Machiavelli,—in other words, as full of common sense as an egg is of meat. Lucy will not be home,” said she, abruptly veering off from the line of their talk, as she seated herself on the edge of the bed, “till the middle of January.” “No; I am so sorry. What made you think of her?” “Because I wish she were here right now.”