Do not let me give you a false impression of this young lady. If you had seen her in any one of a number of “scrapes” into which her gay life had led her, you would, I think, form a very high estimation of her character. Clandestine parties in automobiles, with silly young men who know little beyond the recent baseball scores, and who really do not know how to kiss a woman—these kinds of things she had no use for. They bored her, and did not tempt her. Romance, for her, was much more artistic than this, and much more fundamental.

She had, indeed, managed to scare up a real romance which served, for the present at least, as an added enjoyment to a life that was already a happy one. Betty was cruel in such affairs. She made it quite plain to her lovers that she was very much in love with them: but she never allowed them to approach her with anything more forceful than their eyes. And as her present favorite one day exclaimed to a confidential friend, “I might as well hang her picture on the wall and flirt with that.”

This exclamation was carried to Betty’s ears by the said friend, who, notwithstanding his vows of secrecy, was only human. A few days after the disclosure Betty sent the following note by way of consolation:

“Dearest Charles:

“Monty tells me that you want to look at my picture, but that you haven’t got one to hang on the wall. I’m sorry for this; I don’t wish to lose any opportunities, even if it only is with a picture; so I am sending you the very best photograph I have, hoping that you will not fail to make use of it.

“Yours for the winter,

“Betty.”

This note, and the photograph which followed it, astounded Charles, in spite of the fact that he was becoming used to Betty’s impetuosity. Yet, he reflected, he had only known her a few months and could be excused for his astonishment. He very dutifully placed the picture upon his dresser, and very dutifully made love to it. He liked to fill in the colors which the photograph did not reveal. There was nothing to distinguish them from other observations than a lover’s except possibly the hair, which was a strange mixture of brown and gold. The eyes were blue and large. And the nose had a peculiar curve of its own, which was extremely feminine. Charles sighed and decided that he would pay a visit to New York; for he was at that time occupied with journalism in Boston.

Now Betty was no more anxious to fall seriously in love with Charles than she was with Mr. Conrad. While the latter was somewhat uninteresting and unromantic, the former acquitted himself of those faults only at the expense of poverty and an unpretentious position on a Boston newspaper. Mr. Conrad could offer her everything that money could buy; Charles could only bring her those sacrifices which love often demands. She was no more willing to save her pennies for Charles than she was to forfeit her freedom to the middle age of Conrad. And although she did not reason this out, she decided that something ought to be done in the way of intimating her convictions to both lovers. The direct antithesis which they presented amused her and gave her an inspiration. She would pit them against one another and see what would happen. Perhaps it was the restless tendency of her generation which made her want to find out what would happen. Perhaps it was the skepticism of the age which had entered her heart and had led her to doubt which of the two goods wielded the greatest motive—romance or a life of ease. Perhaps, in the true spirit of the modern débutante, she preferred empirical methods. Or perhaps it was merely femininity.

At any rate, she invited them both to dinner on the same evening, and noted with satisfaction Mr. Conrad’s apparent uneasiness upon perceiving the attractive features and the youthful bearing of the new arrival. She laughed also to see that Charles merely regarded Mr. Conrad as an uncle or as an old family friend, and had not, as yet, a suspicion of the true nature of the case. So she devoted the evening to Charles.