"I don't know what you're talking about." This was the remark which had punctuated their childhood, and Theresa laughed, swinging forward to clasp her knees. "Of course you don't! I'm talking of the nonexistent. Alas, alas, and I thought myself a torrent that could never be dammed! Grace, Grace, do you think there's any chance of my becoming a torrent some day?" "I think," she pirouetted, "you could be almost anything you like, if--oh, look! wasn't that rather pretty?--if you cared enough." "That's just it," said Theresa gloomily. "I only care about myself, and I am that already. At least, I suppose I am. I'm not sure. Grace, have you got a self you're sure of?" "Yes." "Just one whole, compact little bundle of self?" "Yes, I think so." "Oh, how did you do it? There are parts of me in every star and in every earthworm, and I don't know which is which or where! What magnet will draw them all together?" "Ah!" said Grace. "Oh, don't be silly. It's no good talking to a woman with only one idea in her head." "It's a good idea," said Grace serenely. "Yes, for you." Grace laughed now, with a wise little giggle of premonition. "Poor Theresa!" "Go back to your hairdresser. I'm going to do some work." "My hairdresser is giving a lesson. There's a wretched man who wants to learn the banjo from him. The banjo!" "I'd rather hear the banjo any day than Phil playing the fiddle. Why do you let him? He'll end his days scratching the thing outside public-houses. He's just the type. And you'll stand on the pavement with a tin mug. Do go home--while you have one!" "Yes, I must go. I have a class in an hour. Good-bye, darling. You've a lot of new freckles, and you look so well. Have you forgiven Mr. Partiloe?" "Oh yes, I've forgiven him. He doesn't matter any more." "What did you think of the Rutherford boy?" "He's not a boy; he's a man. He was away from home." "Oh, how dull." "Not a bit." She straightened the bow of her slipper and spoke quickly. "There's no need of people when there are mountains."