it to. The girls who marry men like that get what they bargain
for--looks for money--money for looks--"

"But Trevelyan Morehouse!"

Hermia paused and examined the roses in the silver vase with a
quizzical air.

"If I were not so rich, I should probably love Trevvy madly. But, you
see, then Trevvy wouldn't love me. He couldn't afford to. He's
ruining himself with roses as it is. And, curiously enough, I have a
notion when I marry, to love--and be loved for myself alone. I'm not
in love with Trevvy or any one else--or likely to be. The man I
marry, Auntie, isn't doing what Trevvy and Crosby and Reggie Armistead
are doing. He's different somehow--different from any man I've ever
met."

"How, child?"

"I don't know," she mused, with a smile. "Only he isn't like Trevvy
Morehouse."

"But Mr. Morehouse is a very promising young man--"

"The person I marry won't be a promising young man. Promising young
men continually remind me of my own deficiencies. Imagine
domesticating a critic like that, marrying a mirror for one's foibles
and being able to see nothing else. No, thanks."

"Whom will you marry then?" sighed Mrs. Westfield resignedly.