t your nose broken, or elope with a chorus
girl, or commit an unromantic murder, I should begin to have hopes of
you."

"I may do something as bad some day and surprise you."

"It would surprise me. But I'm not sure, after all, that I don't like
you better as you are, with your fine air of superiority. It makes one
believe, somehow, in human perfectibility. Now, I can never believe in
that when I realize how I feel about Rose Stribling. There is nothing
perfectible in such emotions."

"Rose Stribling! Beside you she is like a pumpkin in the basket with a
pomegranate!"

Corinna laughed with frank pleasure. "There are a million who would
prefer the pumpkin to the pomegranate," she answered. "Rose Stribling,
you must admit, is the type that has been the desire of the world since
Venus first rose from the foam."

"Can you imagine Mrs. Stribling rising from foam?" Stephen retorted
impertinently.

"No, Venus has grown fatter through the ages," assented Corinna, "but
the type is unchanged. Now, among all the compliments that have been
paid me in my life, no one has ever compared me to the Goddess of Love.
I have been painted with the bow of Diana, but never with the doves of
Venus."

Because he felt that her gaiety rippled over an undercurrent of pain,
Stephen bent forward and touched her hand with an impulse of tenderness.

"You are more beautiful than you ever were in your life," he said.
"There isn't a woman in the world who can compare with you." Then he
laughed merrily. "I shall watch you two to-morrow evening, you and Rose
Stribling."

"I am sorry," replied Corinna in a troubled voice. "I may tell you the
truth since Father says it is the last thing any one ever believes--and
the truth is that she makes me savage--yes, I mean it--she makes me
savage."

"I know what the Judge means when he says you are like Vetch," returned
Stephen abruptly. Then, without waiting for her reply, he added in an
impulsive tone: "Triumph over her to-morrow night, Corinna. Go out to
fight with all your weapons and seize the trophies from Mrs. Stribling."

"You funny boy!" exclaimed Corinna, but the sadness had left her voice
and her eyes were shining. "Why, I am twelve years older than Rose
Stribling, and those twelve years are everything."

"Those twelve years are nothing unless you imagine that you are in a
novel. It is only in books that there is a chronology of the emotions."

"She is a fat blonde without a heart," insiste