sorry for those
who _want_ to fight. Loneliness must be very terrible, and there is
really no such thing as a girl friend after school days, is there?
Except for very ugly girls or very daft ones."

"I am sure you would be a staunch friend to anyone, dear."

"Yes; but they don't know it, you see. Naturally they judge me by
themselves," said Flamby wistfully. "I used to hate being a woman before
I met you, Mrs. Chumley, but I am not quite so sorry now."

"I am glad, dear. So nice of you to say so."

"If there were no men in the world I think women might be nicer,"
continued Flamby the philosopher--"not at first, of course, but when
they had got over it. Nearly all the mean things girls do to one another
are done because of men, and yet all the splendid things they do are
done for men as well. Aren't we funny? Three of the girls from the
school went to be nurses recently, one because her boy had been killed,
another because she was in love with a doctor, and the third because she
had heard that a great many girls became engaged to Colonials in France.
Not one of them went because she wanted to be a nurse. Now, if _you_
went, Mrs. Chumley, you would go because you were sorry for all the poor
wounded, I know. It would have been just the same when you were
eighteen, and that's why I think you are so wonderful."

Mrs. Chumley became the victim of silent merriment, from which she
recovered but slowly. "You are a really extraordinary child, dear," she
said. "Yet you seem to have quite a number of girl friends come to see
you as well as boys."

"Yes. You see I make allowances for them and then they are quite good
friends."

"Who was that fair man who took you to the theatre last night, and
brought you home in a lovely car?"

"Orlando James. He has the next studio to Mr. Chauvin. I hate him."

Mrs. Chumley's blue eyes became even more circular than usual. "But you
went to the theatre with him?"

"Yes; that was why I went. He buys me nice presents, too. I wouldn't
take them if I liked him."

* * * * *

Presently, retiring to her own abode, Flamby picked up a copy of a daily
paper and stared for a long time at two closely-printed columns headed,
"Mr. Paul Mario's Challenge to the Churches." The article was a
commentary by a prominent literary man upon Paul's second paper, _Le
Monde_, which had appeared that week and had occasioned even wider
comment than the first, _Le Bateleur_. Long