But, fond as he was of tormenting her, he did not want to try her too far, and so he endeavored to make friends. But his efforts at reconciliation were not a success. She was not to be coaxed into her sweet mood again; indeed she almost led him to fear that he had wounded her irreparably by his jests. And yet, when he at last consulted his watch, and went to the side-table for his hat and gloves, he turned round to find her large eyes following him in a wistful sort of way. “Are you going?” she asked him at length, a half-reluctant appeal in her voice. “I am due at Brabazon Lodge now,” he answered. She said no more after that, but relapsed into silence, and let him go without making an effort to detain him, receiving his adieus in her most indifferent style. But she was cross and low-spirited when he was gone, and Aimée, coming into the room with her work, found her somewhat hard to deal with, and indeed was moved to tell her so. “You are a most inexplicable girl, Mollie,” she said. “What crotchet is troubling you now?” “No crotchet at all,” she answered, and then all at once she got up and stood before the mantel-glass, looking at herself fixedly. “Aimée,” she said, “if you were a man, would you admire me?” Aimée gave her a glance, and then answered her with sharp frankness. “Yes, I should,” she said. She remained standing for a few minutes, taking a survey of herself, front view, side view, and even craning her pretty throat to get a glimpse of her back; and then a pettish sigh burst from her, and she sat down again at her sister's feet, clasping her hands about her knees in a most unorthodox position. “I should like to have a great deal of money,” she said after a while, and she frowned as she said it. “That is a startling observation,” commented Aimée, “and shows great singularity of taste.” Mollie frowned again, and shrugged one shoulder, but otherwise gave the remark small notice. “I should like,” she proceeded, “to have a carriage, and to live in a grand house, and go to places. I should like to marry somebody rich.” And having blurted out this last confession, she looked half ashamed of herself. “Mollie,” said Aimée, solemnly dropping her hands and her work upon her lap, “I am beginning to feel as Dolly does; I am beginning to be afraid you are going to get yourself into serious trouble.” Then this overgrown baby of theirs, who had so suddenly astonished them all by dropping her babyhood and asserting herself a woman, said something so startling that the wise one fairly lost her breath. “If I cannot get what I want,” she said, deliberately, “I will take what I can get.” “You are going out of your mind,” ejaculated Aimée. “It does n't matter if I am,” cried the romantic little goose, positively crushing the oracle by breaking down all at once, and flinging herself upon the hearthrug in a burst of tears,--“it does n't matter if I am. Who cares for _me_?” CHAPTER XI. ~ IN WHICH COMES A WIND WHICH BLOWS NOBODY GOOD.