"I have my doubts about your being a butterfly at all," returned Ethel. "I think you tried to be and failed."
"Why do you think that?"
Ethel smiled. "You'll not like it if I tell you why."
"I promise not to turn and rend you."
"Then I think you would rather help a poor man build up his fortunes by—we will say—stirring up pancakes in a studio—than to be mistress of an establishment on Commonwealth Avenue."
"Do give me credit for more common sense than to consent to spoil a man's career would indicate," replied Gwen lightly. "No, it just happens that I shouldn't care to live in Boston, having been brought up south of Mason and Dixon's line."
Ethel laughed. "Tell that to the marines! I'll yet see in some exhibition a 'portrait of the artist's wife' in which I shall recognize my friend Gwendolin Hilary, née Whitridge."
"All right. Have it your own way," said Gwen, trying not to look conscious. "At all events I am honestly glad for you, Ethel, as I want you to believe."
"Oh, I believe; I'm only too ready to. Good-by, dear. I count on you to be one of my bridesmaids."
"No rash promises," declared Gwen. "I shall then be teaching finger-plays and kindergarten songs to such an extent that there'll be no time to devote to wedding fixings."