"Well, her story sounds dreary--she told me a good deal of it. She fell
to talking little by little and went from one thing to another. She's in
that situation when a girl _must_ open herself--to some woman."

"Hasn't she got Jasper?" I asked.

"He isn't a woman. You strike me as jealous of him," my companion added.

"I daresay _he_ thinks so--or will before the end. Ah no--ah no!" And I
asked Mrs. Nettlepoint if our young lady struck her as, very grossly, a
flirt. She gave me no answer, but went on to remark that she found it
odd and interesting to see the way a girl like Grace Mavis resembled the
girls of the kind she herself knew better, the girls of "society," at the
same time that she differed from them; and the way the differences and
resemblances were so mixed up that on certain questions you couldn't tell
where you'd find her. You'd think she'd feel as you did because you had
found her feeling so, and then suddenly, in regard to some other
matter--which was yet quite the same--she'd be utterly wanting. Mrs.
Nettlepoint proceeded to observe--to such idle speculations does the
vacancy of sea-hours give encouragement--that she wondered whether it
were better to be an ordinary girl very well brought up or an
extraordinary girl not brought up at all.

"Oh I go in for the extraordinary girl under all circumstances."

"It's true that if you're _very_ well brought up you're not, you can't
be, ordinary," said Mrs. Nettlepoint, smelling her strong salts. "You're
a lady, at any rate."