have long arguments. I've said that Martin was more--interesting, witty,
you know, and all that, than John. And Frederica says John is more
interesting than Martin. Oh, just to talk to, I mean. Not about anything
in particular, but when you haven't anything else to do."

She paused long enough to take a tentative sip or two of boiling hot
tea. But the way she had hung up the ending to her sentence, told them
she wasn't through with the topic yet.

"It's funny about that, too," she went on, "because really, we see each
other so much and have known each other so long, that I know
Martin's--repertory, about as well as Frederica. I mean, it isn't like
Walter Mill, when he was just back from the Legation at Pekin, or even
like Jimmy Wallace, who spends half his time playing around with all
sorts of impossible people--chorus-girls and such, and tells you queer
stories about them. There's something besides the--familiarness that
makes husbands dull. And that's what makes Bertie amusing."

"Oh, of course," said Frederica, "everybody likes to flirt--whether they
have to or not."

"Have to?" Rose echoed. She didn't want to miss anything.

Frederica hesitated. Then, rather tentatively, began her exegesis.

"Why, there are a lot of women--especially of our sort, I suppose, who
are always ... well, it's like taking your own temperature--sticking a
thermometer into their mouths and looking at it. They think they know
how they ought to feel about certain things, and they're always looking
to see if they do. And when they don't, they think their emotional