have been made up of painting and young men. She was fond of Walter,
but she wasn't sure that she did not like Henry best, and later,
others--a Jim, a Hubert, and a Charles--knocked at her studio door,
and they were all admitted, and they wasted Elsie's time and drank her
tea. Very often they addressed their attentions to Mildred, but she
said she could not encourage them, they were all fast, and she said
she did not like fast men.

'I never knew a girl like you; you're not like other girls. Did you
never like a man? I never really. I once thought you liked Ralph.'

'Yes, I do like him. But he's different from these men; he doesn't
make love to me. I like him to like me, but I don't think I should
like him if he made love to me.'

'You're an odd girl; I don't believe there's another like you.'

'I can't think how you can like all these men to make love to you.'

'They don't all make love to me,' Elsie answered quickly. 'I hope you
don't think there's anything wrong. It is merely Platonic.'

'I should hope so. But they waste a great deal of your time.'

'Yes, that's the worst of it. I like men, men are my life, I don't
mind admitting it. But I know they've interfered with my painting.
That's the worst of it.'

Then the conversation turned on Cissy Clive. 'Cissy is a funny girl,'
Elsie said. 'For nine months out of every twelve she leads a highly-