cussing that. Now I see you mean business with Lord Keynes. You'll run it through on your own lines, I suppose. But remember '—he paused a moment—' I guess it's rather difficult for one to say it,' he said, ' but it's just this: When a girl marries a man, if she doesn't hit it off, the best thing she can do is to make believe she does. But I doubt if Amelie can make believe worth a cent.'
' Well, she just adores him,' said Mrs. Palmer.
' That's good as far as it goes.'
' It goes just about to the end of the world,' said she.
Mr. Palmer considered this.
' The end of the world occurs sooner than you think sometimes,' he said. ' I'll get you a genuine Tanagra, if you like,' he added, ' and I'll guy Bilton about the other. I'll pretend he thought it was genuine. That'll make him tender.'
Though Mrs. Palmer had no objection to exaggeration in a good cause, she had not in the least been guilty of it when she said that Amelie adored Bertie Keynes. Most girls have daydreams of some kind, and Amelie, with the vividness that characterized her, had conjured up before now with some completeness her own complement. Unless a woman is celibate by nature (a thing happily rare) , she is frequently conscious of the empty place in herself which it is her duty and her constant, though often unconscious, quest to find the tenant for. And Amelie was not in the least of a celibate nature; her warm blood beat generously, and the love of her nature that should one day pour itself on one at present overflowed in runnels of tenderness for all living things. The sprouts of the springing daisies were dear to her—dogs, horses, even the wild riot of the Revels, was worthy of her affectionate interest. But the rather unreasonable attention she bestowed on these numberless objects of affection was only the overflow
