pick out some prince or other, or maybe some ogre who was wasting
his lands--do you follow me?"

"Perfectly," said he. "And then did the beautiful princess pine
away?"

"Um--no," said Betty, pursing her lips. "But she had to dance
terribly hard to keep from thinking about herself." Then she
laughed, and exclaimed, "Dear me, we are getting poetical!" And
next, looking sober again, "Do you know, I was half afraid to talk
to you. Ollie tells me you're terribly serious. Are you?"

"I don't know," said Montague--but she broke in with a laugh, "We
were talking about you at dinner last night. They had some whipped
cream done up in funny little curliques, and Ollie said, 'Now, if my
brother Allan were here, he'd be thinking about the man who fixed
this cream, and how long it took him, and how he might have been
reading "The Simple Life."' Is that true?"

"It involves a question of literary criticism"--said Montague.

"I don't want to talk about literature," exclaimed the other. In
truth, she wanted nothing save to feel of his armour and find out if
there were any weak spots through which he could be teased. Montague
was to find in time that the adorable Miss Elizabeth was a very
thorny species of rose--she was more like a gay-coloured wasp, of
predatory temperament.

"Ollie says you want to go down town and work," she went on. "I
think you're awfully foolish. Isn't it much nicer to spend your time