grow older. A girl of thirty-two is likely to be quite nice."
"I don't wonder you've avoided us," said Marion.
"I was just generalizing," answered Floyd. "Nothing personal."
"Generalizing from my remarks about Mr. Evans and Mr. Morse?"
"Oh, nothing personal."
"But that is the kind of thing in girls that you criticise?" She pressed him honestly for an answer.
"Well, yes. One kind of thing."
"But we only do it in fun."
"You asked me what I thought of girls," said Floyd. "But you can't draw me into an argument. I was n't accusing anybody."
"You say that just as if you meant, 'If the cap fits, put it on.'"
"But anyway," Floyd reminded her, "my opinion was that of one who knew nothing about the subject."
"Oh, yes—but I have to admit that what you say is more or less true. Only, we don't mean to be unkind, or hurt people's feelings; if we're funny at their expense, we try to arrange it so that it's behind their backs. That does n't make it any better, does it? And I suppose it does n't really help much if we have quite a lot of kind feeling that we keep to ourselves?" She spoke a little wistfully—in a manner quite out of keeping with her usual positive tone. "All girls are n't the way you think them. The very best of us is n't here this winter."
"Who is she?" asked Floyd.
"Lydia Dunbar—I mean, Lydia Lee; I can't think of her as married. You'd never find her making fun of a man because he was a stick."
"I know her; she is a nice girl," said Floyd. Then he looked into Marion Clark's face and laughed. "But after all, she is n't the only nice girl,* Marion."
She was a self-possessed young person, not to be upset by
