"If you call either you are no friend of mine," said Lottie, springing to the door, locking it, and taking the key.
"Why, Lottie, I don't understand—"
"There is no need that you should. Nothing is the matter—only I'm blue—I've been thinking of awful things. I was in one of my moods this afternoon, now I'm in one of my tenses."
"Unusually intense, I should think. I have not seen you so moved since Tom Wellesly threatened to blow out his brains for you."
"He hadn't any to blow out," snapped Lottie, "or he wouldn't have thought of doing it for such a girl as I am."
"Well," sighed Bel, who at times was one of Job's comforters,
"I've heard he has never been the same since."
"I hope he has been wiser, then. How can men be such stupid owls as to fall in love with me! Can't they see I'm a wicked little heathen?"
"That is just the kind men like," sneered Bel, misanthropically. "You expect to captivate (and of course you will) this sincere and saintly young minister. He already thinks that you are by far the best of our party, and has some of the first symptoms that your victims usually manifest."
Lottie sprang up, dashed away her tears, and commenced restlessly pacing the room.
"Bother on the men," she exclaimed. "Why will they be so silly! The world's a perfect jumble, and we are all lunatics and fools, crying for what is not good for us, and turning our backs upon what is. I'm disgusted with everybody, and myself in particular. Now if this overgrown student makes a fool of himself, like the others, I shall lose faith in mankind, and I know there is nothing to hope from woman-kind."