"How do you know?" The bride's statements were now delivered with such authority that Theresa was forced to question them. "You're so good-tempered." "You think that because you're not living with me. Ask Uncle George! We quarrelled this morning. He wants me to be secretary to one of his old societies. I think it was in aid of the children of devoured missionaries." "Oh, Terry!" "It was something quite as bad. And for a mere pittance! He told me the work would be reward enough. I nearly threw the coffee-pot at him. Am I not worthy of my hire? Why can't they employ one of the undevoured children? And he turned the other cheek. He said he would try to find something else for me. He likes me, you know." "People seem to. Phil thinks you're charming." "Does he? By the way, do ask that enthusiastic young man not to play the fiddle quite so late at night. I can hear so plainly through the wall just when I want to go to sleep. First there's a squealing--oh, it really is squealing; you must face facts--and then there's a wailing, and then one note that you know is meant to be a musical one, and you think at last the tune is coming--but he stops there. And there's a long pause, and I know you are saying, 'Oh, Phil, how wonderful! Play it again.' And he does. It makes me hot all over, and I hate you both and call you names. I don't think I like having only a wall between us. I'm always wondering what you are talking about, and I feel as I used to when I was little, and heard Father and Mother talking in another room. It always sounded so mysterious and so important, and I wanted to listen, but I should have found it very dull, just as I should find your conversations." "They're not dull. There are no end of wonderful things to talk about when you really like a person." Theresa's lips curved in a small, superior smile. Did she not know? "You needn't look like that," said Grace sharply. "You'll know some day." "Married people," said Theresa, "do nothing but prophesy their own feelings for other people. Bless you, I don't want to feel as you do. It would be like--like feeding me on grass." "I suppose there's meant to be an insult there," said Grace placidly, "but I don't understand it." "No, it was only an unsuccessful simile. One can't always hit the nail exactly on the head. I like that way of doing your hair." Grace scanned herself in the glass. "Yes. Phil made it up." "Good Heavens! He ought to be a hairdresser!" She could not imagine Alexander concerning himself with such trivialities. "He could only be that if he were in love with all his customers," said Grace, preening herself delicately and feeling that the last word was hers. "The source of all inspiration! Oh me! Where's mine?" "Your what?" Grace had been executing an intricate step, and now she stood on tiptoe, poised like a dragonfly. "My inspiration, and the fountain head thereof. My river is all dried up. But I never was a river; I only thought I was."