Mabel Flirtington is an _ingénue_ of the most _fin-de-siècle_ order, one with a will of her own and a brain that is wide awake. Indeed, she is a natural product of the time that makes for individualism in both sexes. She is bored or amused with equal discrimination, and selects her own entertainment and occupation accordingly, just as she selects her own friends. She has a keen sense of humour and a power of sarcasm, and, as she is always on the alert for any fun, and ever ready to dare anything requiring pluck and strength, she is the admired of all youthful admirers. There is not an honest-hearted, clean-minded young man of Mabel’s acquaintance, or a girl that is worthy of a man’s respect, who will not without hesitation describe her as an “awfully jolly” girl, by which is meant all that is frank, and brave, and comradelike. She is a girl to command instant respect and admiration from all those capable of understanding her; but to the meaner-minded she will present no favourable view, for she will tread on their mental corns, so to speak. Her self-reliance will to them appear mere conceit, her ready repartee will sound like impertinence, and her fearlessness seem only swagger. [Illustration] For myself, I love to see Mabel among a number of young folk, to hear her asserting the profound opinions of eighteen, and to watch how her very attitude of independence lends persuasion to her illogical utterances. I enjoy her ingenuous way of playing the despot, and it is delightful to see how thoroughly she recognises her power, and how she revels in its exercise. Last year was her initial “season,” and yet, to see her at her first ball, to witness the experienced skill with which she played off her partners against each other, amusing herself by lighting little sparks of jealousy, and then discreetly fanning them into tiny flames sufficient to leave burning embers for the next occasion, one might have imagined she had been going to balls for years past, and had served a long apprenticeship in flirtation. Mabel adores dancing with all the enthusiasm of eighteen, but she is nothing if not candid, and she told one partner bluntly that she would rather sit down as he could not dance, and then she signalled to me, as an old friend, to go and rescue her. Mabel was certainly the most self-possessed _débutante_ I ever saw—the end-of-the-century _ingénue_ is never shy, mark you—and she made more harmless heart-havoc in a single evening than her good Aunt Gertrude had made in a lifetime.