"I am speaking for both of us. You are tired of me, for example."

"My dear girl, I am not."

"You are. And I am tired of you. It's not your fault, and it's not
mine. It is the fault of any house-party. People see too much of each
other. I am glad I am going away to-morrow, and you'll be glad. And
when we have been separated a month, you will rush up to see me, and
say you couldn't live without me."

She dissected him coolly. Madge had a modern way of looking at things.
She was not in the least sentimental. But she had big moments of
feeling. It was because of this deep current which swept her away now
and then from the shallows that she held Dalton's interest. He never
knew in what mood he should find her, and it added spice to their
friendship.

"I didn't know you were going to-morrow."

"Neither did I till this morning, but I am bored to death, Georgie."

She did not look it. She was long-limbed, slender, with heavy
burned-gold hair, a skin which was pale gold after a July by the sea.
The mauve of her dress and hat emphasized the gold of hair and skin.
Some one had said that Madge MacVeigh at the end of a summer gave the
effect of a statue cast in new bronze. Dalton in the early days of
their friendship had called her his "Golden Girl." The name had stuck
to her. She had laughed at it but had liked it. "I should hate it,"
she had said, "if I were rich. Perhaps some day some millionaire will
turn me into gold and make it true."