“It’s feeling such an ass puts me off,” added Hermon; “they’re all so busy and alert about one thing or another down there, they make me feel a mere cumberer of the earth. A woman manages a husband, and a family, and some sort of a home, and does the breadwinning as well. The children try to earn pennies in their playtime; and the men work at trying to get work.” “Whereas you?…” suggested Hal with a twinkle, “work at trying not to get work.” “Come to supper, and don’t be so personal, Hal,” said her cousin. “I wrote a poem on you last week, and called it ‘Why Men Die Young.’ It is in a rag called _The Woman’s Own Newspaper_. It is also in _The Youth’s Journal_, with the pronouns altered, and a different title; but I forget what.” “What a waste of time—writing such drivel,” Hal flung at him. “Why don’t you compose a masterpiece, and scale Olympus?” “Too commonplace. Lots of men have done that. Very few are positive geniuses at writing drivel. I claim to be in the front rank.” They sat down to a lively repast, and Lorraine found herself, instead of an awe-inspiring, distinguished guest, treated with a frank camaraderie that was both amusing and refreshing. They all made a butt of Hal, who was quite equal to the three of them; and when the giant paraphrased one of her (Lorraine’s) most tragic utterances on the stage into a serio-comic dissertation on a fruit salad they were eating, lacking in wine, she laughed as gaily as any, and felt she had known them for years. Then Hal insisted upon playing a game she had that moment invented, which consisted of each one confessing his or her greatest failing, and the gaiety grew. She led off by informing them that she found she always jumped eagerly at any excuse to avoid her morning bath. Dick Bruce followed it up with a confession that he found he was never satisfied with fewer than four “best girls”, because he liked to compare notes between them, and write silly verses on his observations; while Harold St. Quintin owned to an objectionable fancy for bull’s-eye peppermints and blowing eggs. Alymer Hermon confessed that he loved giving advice to people years older than himself, concerning things he knew nothing whatever about. Lorraine tried to cry off, but, hard pressed, she admitted that she liked the excitement of spending money she had not got, and then having to pawn something to satisfy her creditors. “Spending money you will not miss,” she finished, “is very dull beside spending money you do not possess.” Alymer Hermon then suggested they should tell each other of besetting faults, and at once informed Hal her colossal opinion of herself and all she did was only equalled by its entire lack of foundation. Hal hurled back at him that every inch in height after six feet absorbed vitality from the brain, and that, though his dense stupidity was most trying, the reason for it claimed their compassion.