"Let's take an inventory and see if we can find out. You have one
priceless blessing--good health. You have considerably more than your
share of good looks. Likewise a suitable wardrobe; not many clothes, but
few, and those few, good. Clothes are supposed to please and satisfy
women. You have musical talent, a love of books and flowers, a fine
appreciation of beauty, a host of friends, and that one supreme gift of
the gods--a sense of humour. In addition to all this, you have a
comfortable home and an income of your own that enables you to do
practically as you please. Could you ask for more?"

"Not while I have you, Aunt Francesca. I suppose I'm horrid."

"You couldn't be, my dear. I've left marriage out of the question,
since, if you'd had any deep longing for it, you'd have chosen some one
from the horde that has infested my house for fifteen years and more.
You've surely been loved."

Rose smiled and bit her lip. "I think that's it," she murmured. "I've
never cared for anybody--like that. At least, I don't think I have."

"'When in doubt, don't,'" resumed the other, taking refuge in a
platitude. "Is there any one of that faithful procession whom you
particularly regret?"

"No," answered Rose, truthfully.

"Love is like a vaccination," continued the little lady in grey, with
seeming irrelevance. "When it takes, you don't have to be told."

Her tone was light, almost flippant, and Rose, in her turn, wondered at