water, and outdanced
the singers.

"Thank you," said Mae, smiling up at him. "This has done me good." She
pushed the brown hair back from her forehead and drew some deep breaths
and leaned back in her chair, still tapping her eager, half-tired foot
against the floor, while Norman fanned her with his handkerchief.

This time Bero and the strange, veiled lady and Miss Hopkins and
every other confusing thought floated off, and left them quite happy
for--well--say for ten minutes.

And ten minutes consecutive enjoyment is worth waiting for, old and
cynical people say.

* * * * *

The next morning brought back all her troubles, with variations and
complications, on account of some more misunderstood words.

"I think," said Mae, as she paused to blot the tenth page of a home
letter, "that likes and dislikes are very similar, don't you, Edith?"
Then, as Edith did not reply, she glanced up, and saw that her friend's
chair was occupied by Norman Mann. He looked up also and smiled.

"I am not Edith, you see, but I am interested in your theory all the
same. Only, as I am a man, I shall require you to show up your reasons."

"Well, I find that people who affect me very intensely either way, I
always feel intuitively acquainted with. I know what they will think and
how they will act under given conditions, and I believe we are driven
into friendship or strong dislikes more by the force of circumstances
than by--"

"Elective affinities or any of that nonsense," suggested Norman Mann.

"Yes," said Mae, nodding her head, and repeating her original
statement under another form, as a sort of conclusion and proof to the
conversation. "Yes, a natural acquaintance may develop into your best
friend or your worst foe." She started on page number eleven of her
letter, dipping her pen deep into the ink-stand and giving such a
particular flourish to her right arm, as to nearly upset the bouquet of
flowers at her side. It was Bero's gift. Norman Mann put out his hand
to save it. His fingers fell in among the soft flowers and touched
something stiff. It felt like a little roll of paper. Indignantly and
surprisedly he pulled it out. "What is this?" he cried.

Mae sprang forward, her cheeks aflame. "It is mine," she said.

"Did you put it here?" asked Norman.

"No."

"Then how do you know it is yours? Is not this a carnival bouquet, idly
tossed from the street to the balcony?"

Mae straightened to he