"It may be Kindelon," he suggested.
"No—it is something more usual than that. If she is not a Schmitt I suspect that she is an O'Brien. I picture her as pretty, but somewhat delicate; she works in some dreadful factory, you know, not far away, all through the week. But on Sunday she emerges from her narrow little room in a tenement-house, brave and smart as you please. The beaux fight for her smiles as they join her, and she knows just how to distribute them; she is a most astute little coquette, in her way."
"And the beaux? Are they worthy of her coquetries?"
"Oh, well, she thinks them so. I fear that most of them have soiled finger-nails, and that their Sunday coats fit them very ill.... But now let me pursue my little romance. The poor creature is terribly fond of one of them. There is always one, you know, dearer than the rest."
"Is there?" said Kindelon oddly. "You're quite elucidating. I didn't know that."
"Don't be sarcastic," reproved Pauline with mock grimness. "Sarcasm is always the death of romance. I have an idea that the secretly-adored one is more of a convert than all his fellows to the beautifying influences of soap. His Sunday face is bright and fresh; it looks conscientiously washed."
"And his finger-nails? Does your imagination also include those, or do they transcend its limits?"
"I have a vague perception of their relative superiority.... Pray let me continue without your prosaic interruptions. Poor little Mary.... Did I not say that her first name was Mary, by-the-by?"
"I have been under the impression for several seconds that you called her Bridget."
"Very well. I will call her so, if you insist. Poor little Bridget, who steals forth, endimanchée and expectant, fails for an hour or two to catch a glimpse of her beloved. She is beginning to be sadly bored by the society of her present three, four, or five admirers, when suddenly she sees the Beloved approaching. Then she brightens and becomes quite sparklingly animated. And when her Ideal draws near, twirling a licorice cane—I insist upon having her Ideal twirl a licorice cane—she receives him with an air of the most unconcerned indifference. It is exquisite to observe the calm, careless way in which she asks him...."