well enough to have any sort of a line on them. They simply weren't my kind aboard ship, and so I didn't pay any attention."
"Don't do a thing, just watch them," said Bert; "and try to make out what they are up to. They are both of them just soft, sweet, ultra-feminine girls, the kind that go in for lacy, diaphanous effects;—picnicking today, both of them have on white skirts and dainty little pink and blue sweaters as thin as cobwebs; and their voices caress you and admire you and—oh, you know, they are the poor-little-me kind. And even then, they are sort of sleek. Kat rolls cream on her tongue all the time. It makes her words slide as if they were greased, and her eyes are unctuous and fawning, and she purrs and purrs. Say, you know how a cat will work her claws softly in and out and positively drool her affection for you; and then suddenly dig those claws in clear to the bone;—and then look up into your face with perfect adoration and purr with tender ingenuousness; and with streaks of cat nature flicking across her eyes all the time. Well, that's Kat Morton; and her sister is a rather fair imitation; but not quite such a finished product."
"Sounds nice" commented Dick, cheerfully. "And what about McKnight?"
"H'm. Rather poor stuff," she said. "Gives an impressions of being underbred and conscious of it, and so he carries a line of immobility and stiff re-
