results." She shook her head wisely. "Oh, yes, we do that here!"
"But I don't mind loose shoe-strings," he said, "Not if they're yours."
"They'll find out what you do mind."
"But suppose," he said, looking at her whimsically; "suppose I wouldn't mind anything—so long as it's yours?"
She courtesied. "Oh, pretty enough! But a girl who's talked about has a weakness that's often a fatal one."
"What is it?"
"It's this: when she's talked about she isn't there. That's how they kill her."
"I'm afraid I don't follow you."
"Don't you see? If Henrietta—or Mildred—or any of 'em—or some of their mothers—oh, we all do it! Well, if any of 'em told you I didn't tie my shoe-strings, and if I were there, so that you could see me, you'd know it wasn't true. Even if I were sitting so that you couldn't see my feet, and couldn't tell whether the strings were tied or not just then, still you could look at me, and see that I wasn't the sort of girl to neglect my shoe-strings. But that isn't the way it happens: they'll get at you when
