Never before,
in an acquaintance dating far back, had I heard the Philosopher hold
forth upon this subject.
"They make themselves conspicuous," said he promptly--to my great
surprise. "As nearly as I can get at it, that's the cardinal fault of
the girl of to-day. Everywhere I go I notice it--in public--in private.
Wherever she is she holds the floor, occupies the centre of the stage.
If you'll pardon my saying it, every last girl you had here this summer
did that thing, each in her own way."
I thought about them--one after another. It was true. Each had, in her
own way, occupied the centre of the stage. And the Gay Lady, than whom
nobody has a better right to keep fast hold of her position in the
foreground of all our thoughts, had allowed each one to do it. And
somehow, in every case, after all, the real focus for all our eyes,
quite without her being able to help it, had been wherever the Gay Lady
had happened to be.
We all went to bed early that night. The Philosopher's observations,
though highly interesting, did not keep us from becoming very sleepy at
an untimely hour.
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