fided to her. "And I can't stand the bread-and-butter sort either. I like women who have a spice of the devil in them, you know, and yet look good, too. Women who've seen the world and all the kingdoms thereof. And they needn't be too young, either. I admire them most about your age. I don't mean you're not young. Why, you might be eighteen, hang it—I beg your pardon—but what I mean is, there's experience in your face. I like experience. I never care to talk to a young girl—they've got no ideas of their own. And I don't like women that pretend to know it all, either—like Mrs. Blackley. She's so awfully knowing. I don't like that dress she's got on—it's affected. I hate those Empire things—they're only suitable for teagowns—and I hate women wearing artificial flowers and things in their hair."
"You're rather hard to please, it seems to me," said Teresa.
"Well, I know what I like, and why shouldn't I? I like your dress—it's a lovely colour, and that silver embroidery on the chiffon is beautiful. Do you live in New York?"
"No, I live out here in the country. My husband is a painter—there he is up at the end of the table. I have one child and we live on four thousand a year."
"How—how clever of you," stammered the boy. Teresa smiled sweetly on him and turned
