arity Theatre; I tell you she's wonderful.'

'No doubt,' said Marion, bending lower over her knitting.

'Lottie's quite a good little girl, you know, but she's so
young--barely twenty--and she can't cook or sew or housekeep or do any
of those things which my mother approves. But she dances wonderfully
and kicks higher than anyone else in the chorus----'

'And you want me to make your mother appreciate the . . . the . . .
high kicks?' broke in Marion rather bitterly.

'Well, not exactly, but you know what mothers are--about the stage, I
mean. So don't you understand that if some sensible little woman like
you were to speak to her about it, she might reconstruct her views----'

He paused, staring in a puzzled way at Marion. Beneath her gentle
exterior she has a decided temper which she is apt to deplore and, she
affirms, must instantly be held in check. This, however, was an
occasion when she did not seem to think the check action need be
applied. She faced George with flashing eyes.

'If you were anything of a man,' she declared, 'you would manage an
affair like that alone without asking help from your woman friends.
Good evening.'

'Good evening,' responded George, not, I suppose, at the moment
thinking of anything more original to say. He departed in a pensive
mood.

'And that,' said Marion, concluding the narrative, 'is all there is to
be told.'

She sat before me with her eyes downcast, her lips quivering, and a
fierce anger rose within me against George Harbinger and mankind in
general who could be so blind to Marion's excellent qualities. As I
took her in my arms and comforted her, kissing her soft cheeks and
fluffy hair, I felt that if I were a man she would be the one woman
above all others that I would desire to have and to hold henceforth and
for evermore. 'Never mind,' I said tenderly, 'some day you'll meet
another who will----'

'No, no, I never shall,' interposed Marion, now openly weeping on my
shoulder. 'I shall never interest any one; I know that now. You can't
understand, Netta, for men are attracted towards you. If Henry died
tomorrow, you'd have half a dozen offers of marriage at once.'

I was rather startled at this suggestion, which somehow hinted
disregard for the unconscious Henry.

'I think I must lack charm,' went on Marion in a choked voice. 'Who
was it described charm as a--a--sort of a bloom on a woman, and said if
she had that she didn't need anything else?'

'It