“Of course it isn’t, Phyllis.  But there was the case of George Holland—­”

“That is very different, Ella.  I had engaged myself to marry George Holland.  It would be impossible for me to marry any man who had shown his contempt for—­for everything that I regard as sacred.”

“I believe it would, if you didn’t love that man.  But if you loved the man——­Oh, when you come to know what it means to love you will understand all.  A woman before she loves is—­what is she, an egg before it is hatched?  That sounds ridiculous.  Better say a green chrysalis before it breaks into a butterfly; for the transition comes at once.  Theology!  Oh, my Phyllis, haven’t you read in history, true history—­novels written by men who know us and how we were created, and why—­haven’t you read what women do when they truly love a man?  How they fling every consideration to the winds:  heaven—­home—­husband—­God—­Mrs. Grundy?  Theology!  Ah, you are a healthy girl.  You never cared a scrap for George Holland.  You were glad when the excuse presented itself in order to throw him over.”

“Yes; I believe that is quite true.”

Ella’s cry of surprise, and her laugh that followed, shocked her companion, and feeling that this was the case, the one who laughed hastened to make her apologies.

“Don’t be annoyed with me, dear,” she cried.  “But I really couldn’t help that laugh when I thought of your earnestness the week before last.  Then, you will remember, you were in great pain because of the heterodoxy of George Holland.  Didn’t I tell you at that time that you had never loved him?  You were ready to assure me that you had, and that you were making a great sacrifice to your principles?”

“I remember very well,” said Phyllis, with a sound that was not far removed from a sob.

“Ah, you are a puzzle to yourself, you poor little chrysalis,” said Ella, putting the meteoric feathers playfully down upon the serious face of Phyllis—­its seriousness was apparent beneath the light of the carriage lamp.  “No, don’t make the attempt to explain anything to me.  Don’t try to reconcile your frankness now with your pretense then, because you’ll certainly make a muddle of it, and because no such attempt is necessary to be made to me.  I know something of the girl and her moods—­not a great deal, perhaps, but enough to prevent my doing you an injustice.  You are perfectly consistent, my Phyllis.”

“Oh, consistent?”

“Perfectly consistent with your nature as a girl.  It is the nature of a girl to change with every wind that blows.  It is only the female prig who acts consistently under all circumstances.  In a world the leading of which is its men, inconsistency is the best nature of a healthy girl made to be loved by men.  One doesn’t sneer at the weathercock because one hour it points to the north and the next to the east.  ’Tis its nature to.  ’Tis our nature to change with every breeze of man that