Beatrix smiled a little wearily. Intimate friends are sometimes cloying, and she felt a certain irritation rising within her, as she watched Sally’s bright face under her French toque, and listened to the easy stream of chatter which issued from Sally’s lips. Sally had never faced such a crisis as the one confronting Beatrix, that day. Moreover, she had dimples, and it was impossible to believe in the sympathy of a person whose dimples insisted upon coming into sight, even in the midst of serious discussion. If he hasn’t already, Sally persisted; he is bound to do it before the season is over. Then what shall you tell him? Aren’t you rushing things a little? Beatrix inquired languidly. Please do remember that I only met Mr. Lorimer at the Horse Show, and that it is three weeks to Lent. That’s nothing, Sally replied flatly, but flippantly. You subjugated Eric Stanford in half that time, and his gray matter has been in a pulpy condition ever since. I didn’t know it. About his gray matter? "Oh, that is congenital trouble
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