"It is a flaring thing," she said.
"No, it isn't," he returned, promptly. "Not in the least. You might call it brilliant—if you insist on an adjective. It is a brilliant thing, and it is not like you in the least."
She turned toward him.
"No," she said, "it isn't like me in the least."
"It looks," remarked Arbuthnot, giving it some lightly critical attention, "as if you had taken a new departure."
"That is it exactly," she returned. "You always say the right thing. I have taken a new departure."
"Might I ask in what direction?" he inquired.
"Yes," she responded. "I will tell you, as a fair warning. I am going to be a dazzling and worldly creature."
"You are?" he said. "Now that is entirely sensible, though I should scarcely call it a new departure. You know you tried it last winter, with the most satisfying results. When Lent came on you had lost several pounds in weight and all your color; you had refined existence until neither rest nor food appeared necessary to you, and the future was naturally full of promise. Be gay, by all means; you'll find it pay, I assure you. Go to a lunch-party at one, and a reception at four, a dinner in the evening, and drop in at a German or so on your way home, taking precautions at the same time against neglecting your calling-list in the intervals these slight recreations allow you. Oh, I should certainly advise you to be gay."