All these Millicent read with little interest, and answered in that conveniently large calligraphy which made three lines look like a note, and magnified a note into a four-page letter. The dressmakers' circulars--the tradesmen's illustrated catalogues of things she could not possibly want, and the jewellers' delicate photographs interested her a thousand times more. But even these did not satisfy her. All these people were glad--most of them were delighted. Millicent wanted to hear from those who were not delighted, not even pleased, but in despair. She wanted to hear more of the broken hearts. But somehow the broken hearts were silent. Could it be that they did not care? Could it be that THEY were only flirting? She dismissed these silly questions with the promptness which they deserved. It was useless to think of it in that way--more useless, perhaps, than she suspected; for she was not deep enough, nor observant enough, to know that the broken hearts in question had been much more influenced by the suspicion that she cared for them than by the thought that they cared for her. She did not know the lamentable, vulgar fact that any woman can be a flirt if she only degrade her womanhood to flattery. Men do not want to love so much as to be loved. Such is, moreover, their sublime vanity that they are ready to believe any one who tells them, however subtly--mesdames, you cannot be too subtle for a man's vanity to find your meaning--that they are not as other men. To the commonplace observer it would, therefore, appear (erroneously, no doubt) that the broken hearts having been practically assured that Millicent Chyne did not care for them, promptly made the discovery that the lack of feeling was reciprocal. But Millicent did not, of course, adopt this theory. She knew better. She only wondered why several young men did not communicate, and she was slightly uneasy lest in their anger they should do or say something indiscreet. There was no reason why the young people should wait. And when there is no reason why the young people should wait, there is every reason why they should not do so. Thus it came about that in a week or so Millicent was engaged in the happiest pursuit of her life. She was buying clothes without a thought of money. The full joy of the trousseau was hers. The wives of her guardians having been morally bought, dirt cheap, at the price of an anticipatory invitation to the wedding, those elderly gentlemen were with little difficulty won over to a pretty little femininely vague scheme of withdrawing just a little of the capital--said capital to be spent in the purchase of a really GOOD trousseau, you know. The word “good” emanating from such a source must, of course, be read as “novel,” which in some circles means the same thing.