."

After having been several times severely snubbed in this fashion,
Hemingway remarked grimly as he put a black pearl back into his pocket:

"At this rate sister will be mighty glad to see me when I get home. It
seems almost a pity I haven't got a sister."

The girl answered this only with a grave smile.

On another occasion she admired a polo pony that had been imported for
the stable of the boy Sultan. But next morning Hemingway, after much
diplomacy, became the owner of it and proudly rode it to the agency.
Lady Firth and Polly Adair walked out to meet him arm in arm, but at
sight of the pony there came into the eyes of the secretary a look that
caused Hemingway to wish himself and his mount many miles in the
jungle. He saw that before it had been proffered, his gift-horse had
been rejected. He acted promptly.

"Lady Firth," he said, "you've been so awfully kind to me, made this
place so like a home to me, that I want you to put this mare in your
stable. The Sultan wanted her, but when he learned I meant to turn her
over to you, he let her go. We both hope you'll accept."

Lady Firth had no scruples. In five minutes she had accepted, had
clapped a side-saddle on her rich gift, and was cantering joyously down
the Pearl Road.

Polly Adair looked after her with an expression that was distinctly
wistful. Thus encouraged, Hemingway said:

"I'm glad you are sorry. I hope every time you see that pony you'll be
sorry."

"Why should I be sorry?" asked the girl.

"Because you have been unkind," said Hemingway, "and it is not your
character to be unkind. And that you have shown lack of character
ought to make you sorry."

"But you know perfectly well," said Mrs. Adair, "that if I were to take
any one of these wonderful things you bring me, I wouldn't have any
character left."

She smiled at him reassuringly. "And you know," she added, "that that
is not why I do not take them. It isn't because I can't afford to, or
because I don't want them, because I do; but it's because I don't
deserve them, because I can give you nothing in return."

"As the copy-book says," returned Hemingway, "'the pleasure is in the
giving.' If the copy-book don't say that, I do. And to pretend that
you give me nothing, that is ridiculous!"

It was so ridiculous that he rushed on vehemently. "Why, every minute
you give me something," he exclaimed. "Just to see you, just to know
you are alive, just to be certain when I tur