"HE ISN'T LIKE US" Margaret continued to sit there, her elbows on the dressing-table, her knuckles pressing into her cheeks, the hazel eyes gazing at their reflection in the mirror.

"What is it in me," she said to her image, "that makes me less successful at drawing men to the point than so many girls who are no better looking than I ?" And she made an inventory of her charms that was creditably free from vanity.

"And men certainly like to talk to me," she pursued.

"The fish bite, but the hook doesn't hold.
Perhaps--probably--I'm not sentimental enough.

I don't simper and pretend innocence and talk tommy rot--and listen to it as if I were eating honey." This explanation was not altogether satisfactory, however.