mean you, Frank, dear."

This was said with such a little ring of kindness that Frank was
moved.

"Then the old days still count for something?" he said.

"Oh, yes!" she said.

"But not enough to hurt?" he ventured.

"Sometimes they do and sometimes they don't," she returned. "It
depends on how good a time I'm having. But I hate to think I'm
weak and selfish and vain, and that the only person I really care
for is myself. I value my self-esteem, and it often gets an awful
jar. Sometimes I feel like a girl that has run away from home--
diamonds and dyed hair, you know--and then wakes up at night and
cries to think of what a price she has paid for all her fine
things!" Florence waved her hand towards the alabaster statue of
Pocahontas, with a little ripple of self-disdain. She was in a
strange humour, and beneath the surface of her apparent gaiety
there ran an undercurrent of bitterness and contempt for herself.
Her eyes were unusually brilliant, and her cheeks were pink enough
to have been rouged. The sight of her old lover had stirred many
memories in her bosom.

"And what about my job, Florence?" he said, changing the
conversation. "I've caught the yachting idea, too. Can it be
managed?"