"Dear Mrs. Wyndham," said Sybil, rising, and laying her hands on her
hostess's shoulders, half affectionately, half in protest, "this idea must
be stopped from the first, and I mean to stop it. You are not to give up
any party, or any society, or anything at all for me. If you do I will go
away again. Promise me, will you not?"

"Very well, dear. But you know you are the dearest girl in the world." And
so they kissed, and agreed that Mrs. Wyndham should go out, and that Sybil
should stay at home.

Mrs. Wyndham was really a very kind-hearted woman and a loving friend.
That might be the reason why she was never popular. Popularity is a
curious combination of friendliness and indifference, but very popular
people rarely have devoted friends, and still more rarely suffer great
passions. Everybody's friend is far too apt to be nobody's, for it is
impossible to rely on the support of a person whose devotion is liable to
be called upon a hundred times a day, from a hundred different quarters.
The friendships that mean anything mean sacrifice for friendship's sake;
and a man or a woman really ready to make sacrifices for a considerable
number of people is likely to be asked to do it very often, and to be soon
spent in the effort to be true to every one.

But popularity makes no great demands. The popular man is known to be so
busy in being popular that his offenses of omission are readily pardoned.
His engagements are legion, his obligations are innumerable, and far more
than he can fulfill. But, meet him when you will, his smile is as bright,
his greeting as cordial, and his sayings as universally good-natured and
satisfactory as ever. He has acquired the habit of pleasing, and it is
almost impossible for him to displease. He enjoys it all, is agreeable to