round face'?"

"I promised to keep my temper, so I will spare you; besides, I must
confess that I did not come off so badly after all. 'The creation of
Phidias' was quite flattering; but what makes you think I look
dissatisfied?"

"I am sure you should not look so, for of all women in the world you
have the least to make you discontented."

"O, Florence, don't talk that way. You, who have been my best friend and
my only confidante, ought to know that even the brightest surroundings
have their shadows." Then Marion looked out over the angry, grey waters,
and Florence saw in her deep, black eyes just the dissatisfied, longing
look she had described.

"I think," said Florence, "that what you call shadows on your bright
surroundings are but tarnish which neglect has left there. A little
extra care will make all bright."

"I want sympathy, not sermons, Florence. I was brought up on texts and
tracts, and the Westminster catechism was my daily nourishment."

"Why, Marion, dear, I don't want to preach; I want to help you; but it
is hard for me to understand why you should not be perfectly happy. Your
husband adores you; he is rich and denies you nothing; you are a leader
in society, young, handsome and admired. What more do you want?"

"I don't know, I really don't. If some fairy queen were to appear in a
blaze of light and spangles out of that coal-scuttle and promise to
fulfill any wish, I should be at a loss to tell her what I really want,
but I am not happy. To myself I find fault with everything and
everybody. Some people bore me, some people upset my nerves; at times I
feel utterly lifeless, and at times I get into such a state of mind that
I almost scream, and all over nothing at all. When I go out and meet the
same old set over and over again,--and such a narrow, prosaic set at
that,--it seems as though I should fairly go mad. What I want is a
change. I am perfectly contented away from this depressing place. When I
was in Washington last spring, I felt almost like another woman; in fact
I don't believe it is anything but the provincialism of Chicago which is
putting me in such states of mind."

"Don't be foolish, Marion. As though such a cause could make you
discontented. If it does, then you don't appreciate your native city. I
like Chicago and I would rather visit here than in any place I know."

"Perhaps it is because your old friend, Harold Wainwright, lives here,"
said Marion insinuatingly. Just a tinge o