“You correspond with twelve men!  Good heavens!” exclaimed Ethel, when these open secrets had been revealed to her.  “Don’t tell auntie of it, I beg.  She will—­will misunderstand, I fear, and think it dreadful, and perhaps prevent me being here so much.  It is not at all in accord with English ideas, you know, dear; and auntie is rather stricter than most, even there.”

“Not tell!  Why not?” asked Bijou.  “What is there to shock her?  She must be easily shocked.  I have got nothing to be ashamed of; and I shall tell the old dear to-morrow.”

“Does your father know it?” said Ethel.

“Why, of course he does,” replied Bijou impatiently.  “I generally read him the letters, and he laughs fit to kill himself over some of them.  Popper don’t care one bit.  He says I am old enough to paddle my own canoe; and so I am.  And he knows I don’t care a pin about any of them.  It’s great fun until you get tired of it.  I am tired of it now, rather.  I used to write to twenty; but it has dwindled down to twelve, and I’m going to drop two of those, because they are in the army and are both stationed at the same post.  You see, it is too much trouble to write different letters to each one, so I get up one bright, smart one that suits all around, and copy it for them all, with some changes.”

This speech almost stunned Ethel for a while.  “But doesn’t it vex them very much to get such letters?  What if they should find it out?  And if you don’t at all care for them, why do it at all?”

“Why, for the fun of the thing, goosie.  Angry?  No.  They do the same thing themselves.  Will Piper sent Kate Price and me letters that were exactly the same, word for word:  we compared them.  That is where I got the idea.  Splendid one, isn’t it?  I am just bent and determined on having stacks of fun before I am married, because after that, you know, I shall be laid on the shelf completely,” said Bijou.

“But why should you be ‘laid on the shelf’?  I can’t make it out.  Your life will be just beginning,” said Ethel.

“Well, because what is so is so,” replied Bijou, showing her some patterns for slippers, watch-pockets, tobacco-pouches, and so on, that she meant to work up for birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, “philopoenas,” and other festive occasions, as presents for the adorers.

It is perhaps clearer now why Bijou laid no stress whatever on Mr. Drummond’s attentions, while she seemed to him to be receiving them with marked favor.  When, on their leaving New York, Mr. Brown had asked him to go home with them and spend a month, he looked upon the prize as won.  Before going to Chicago he had shown this so plainly that Bijou had snubbed him roundly,—­a course so foreign to her amiable nature and hospitable creed that on his return she had received him with a kindness that had revived all his hopes,—­or rather designs.  He utterly misunderstood it, and easily persuaded