"I wish they did!" said Miss Anstruther, devoutly. "I only wish they'd show _me_ that they liked it; I should have a better time then. They wouldn't keep making me miserable with their idiotic farewell letters. That's what they _all_ do. Either they write and call me everything--rudely, politely, sarcastically, all ways--or they say their hearts are broken, and they haven't the faintest intention of getting over it--in fact, they wouldn't get over it if they could. That's enough to make any person feel low, even if you know from experience what to expect. At one time I daren't look in the paper for fear of seeing their suicides; but I've only seen their weddings. They all seem to get over it pretty easily; and that doesn't make you think much better of yourself, you know. Of course I'm inconsistent!" "Of course you are," said Nunthorp, cordially. "I approve of you for it. I'd rather see you an old maid, Midge, than going through life in a groove. Consistency's a narrow groove for narrow minds! I can do better than this about consistency, Midge; I'm hot and strong on the subject. But you're not listening." "Ah!" cried Miss Anstruther, who had not listened to a word, "they're driving me crazy, between them! There's Mr. Willimott, you know, who writes. Of course he had no business to speak to me. There were a hundred things against him at the time--even if I'd cared for him--though he's getting more successful now. Well, I do believe he's put me into every story he's written since it happened! I crop up in some magazine or other every month!" "'Into work the poet kneads them,'" murmured Nunthorp, who was not a professional cricketer. "Well, you needn't bother yourself about _him_. You've made the fellow. He now draws a heroine better than most men. It's a pity you don't take to writing, Midge, you'd draw your heroes better than women do as a rule; for don't you see that you must know more about us than we know about ourselves?" "They wouldn't be much of heroes!" laughed the girl. "But I heartily wish I _did_ write. Wouldn't I show up some people, that's all! It would give me something to do, too; it would keep me out of mischief, and really I'm sick of men and their ridiculous nonsense. And they all say the same thing. If only they wouldn't say anything at all! Why do they? You might tell me!" Nunthorp put on his thinking-cap. "You see, you are quite pretty," said he. "Thanks." "Then you sing like an angel." "Please don't! That's what _they_ all say." "Ah, the singing has a lot to do with it; you oughtn't to sing so well; you should cultivate less expression. And then--I'm afraid you like attention." "Well, perhaps I do." "And I'm sure it must be very hard _not_ to be attentive to you," said Nunthorp, with a rather brutal impersonality; "for I should fancy you have a way--quite unconscious, mind--of giving your current admirer the idea that he's the only one who ever held the office!"