“Oh, come up, Molly!” Bessie sang out from the floor above, and met her half-way down the stairs, where she kissed her and led her embraced into the library.

“You don’t like my jay, do you, dear?” she asked, promptly.

Mary Enderby turned her face, the mirror of conscience, upon her, and asked:  “Is he your jay?”

“Well, no; not just in that sense, Molly.  But suppose he was?”

“Then I should have nothing to say.”

“And suppose he wasn’t?”

Still Mary Enderby found herself with nothing of all she had a thousand times thought she should say to Bessie if she had ever the slightest chance.  It always seemed so easy, till now, to take Bessie in her arms, and appeal to her good sense, her self-respect, her regard for her family and friends; and now it seemed so impossible.

She heard herself answering, very stiffly:  “Perhaps I’d better apologize for what I’ve said already.  You must think I was very unjust the last time we mentioned him.”

“Not at all!” cried Bessie, with a laugh that sounded very mocking and very unworthy to her friend.  “He’s all that you said, and worse.  But he’s more than you said, and better.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mary, coldly.

“He’s very interesting; he’s original; he’s different!”

“Oh, every one says that.”

“And he doesn’t flatter me, or pretend to think much of me.  If he did, I couldn’t bear him.  You know how I am, Molly.  He keeps me interested, don’t you understand, and prowling about in the great unknown where he has his weird being.”

Bessie put her hand to her mouth, and laughed at Mary Enderby with her slanted eyes; a sort of Parisian version of a Chinese motive in eyes.

“I suppose,” her friend said, sadly, “you won’t tell me more than you wish.”

“I won’t tell you more than I know—­though I’d like to,” said Bessie.  She gave Mary a sudden hug.  “You dear!  There isn’t anything of it, if that’s what you mean.”

“But isn’t there danger that there will be, Bessie?” her friend entreated.

“Danger?  I shouldn’t call it danger, exactly!”

“But if you don’t respect him, Bessie—­”

“Why, how can I?  He doesn’t respect me!”

“I know you’re teasing, now,” said Mary Enderby, getting up, “and you’re quite right.  I have no business to—­”

Bessie pulled her down upon the seat again.  “Yes, you have!  Don’t I tell you, over and over?  He doesn’t respect me, because I don’t know how to make him, and he wouldn’t like it if I did.  But now I’ll try to make you understand.  I don’t believe I care for him the least; but mind, I’m not certain, for I’ve never cared for any one, and I don’t know what it’s like.  You know I’m not sentimental; I think sentiment’s funny; and I’m not dignified—­”

“You’re divine,” murmured Mary Enderby, with reproachful adoration.