THE VERY TIRED GIRL
besides," her color flamed piteously, "I did n't like being engaged."
"I did n't ask you to be engaged," persisted the Political Economist. "I did n't ask you to serve any underpaid, ill-fed, half-hearted apprenticeship to Happiness. I asked you to be married."
"Oh, no!" sighed Noreen. "I shall never marry any one."
The Political Economist began to laugh. "Going to be an old maid?" he teased.
The high lights flamed into Noreen's eyes. She braced herself into the corner of the carriage and fairly hurled her defiance at him. Indomitable purpose raged in her heart, unutterable pathos drooped around her lips. Every atom of blood in her body was working instantly in her brain. No single drop of it loafed in her cheeks under the flimsy guise of embarrassment.
"I am not an 'Old Maid!' I am not! No one who creates anything is an 'Old Maid'!"
The passion of her mood broke suddenly into wilful laughter. She shook her head at him threateningly.
"Don't you ever dare to call me an 'Old Maid' again.—But I'll tell you just what you can call me—Women are supposed to be the Poetry of Life, are n't they—the Sonnet, the Lyric, the Limerick? Well—I am blank verse. That is
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