"I am sure you would be a staunch friend to anyone, dear."
"Yes; but they don't know it, you see. Naturally they judge me by themselves," said Flamby wistfully. "I used to hate being a woman before I met you, Mrs. Chumley, but I am not quite so sorry now."
"I am glad, dear. So nice of you to say so."
"If there were no men in the world I think women might be nicer," continued Flamby the philosopher—"not at first, of course, but when they had got over it. Nearly all the mean things girls do to one another are done because of men, and yet all the splendid things they do are done for men as well. Aren't we funny? Three of the girls from the school went to be nurses recently, one because her boy had been killed, another because she was in love with a doctor, and the third because she had heard that a great many girls became engaged to Colonials in France. Not one of them went because she wanted to be a nurse. Now, if you went, Mrs. Chumley, you would go because you were sorry for all the poor wounded, I know. It would have been just the same when you were eighteen, and that's why I think you are so wonderful."
Mrs. Chumley became the victim of silent merriment, from which she recovered but slowly. "You are a really extraordinary child, dear," she said. "Yet you seem to have quite a number of girl friends come to see you as well as boys."
"Yes. You see I make allowances for them and then they are quite good friends."
"Who was that fair man who took you to the theatre last night, and brought you home in a lovely car?"
"Orlando James. He has the next studio to Mr. Chauvin. I hate him."
Mrs. Chumley's blue eyes became even more circular than usual. "But you went to the theatre with him?"
"Yes; that was why I went. He buys me nice presents, too. I wouldn't take them if I liked him."