"Very well, then. Don't you think women should try to make men better?"

"Yes."

"And to reduce their temptations?"

"Yes."

"Then, for instance, if you had a loaf of bread you did not need and knew a man was starving for it, would n't you rather give it to him than have him steal it and be responsible for the sin?"

"Yes," said Bessie, "I would, undoubtedly."

"Ah," exclaimed Moore, happily, "then if I tell you I am starving for a kiss and feel afraid I may steal it, you will give me one to put me out of temptation?"

"On the contrary, I shall request you to cease talking nonsense, and suggest that you had better sit down."

"I will, if it pleases you," replied Moore, smiling sweetly at the girl, as he resumed the chair from which he had risen in his eagerness a moment before.

"Oh," said Bessie, in a sarcastic tone, "you think you are very clever, don't you?"

"Why should I deny it? A good opinion is like charity, and should begin at home."

"Does any one else think you are clever, Mr. Moore?"

"I don't know," answered the poet cheerfully; "but if they do not, it only makes my opinion more valuable on account of its rarity."

Bessie was compelled to smile by this ingenious argument, and sought refuge behind her fan; but Moore, seeing he had scored, followed up his success resolutely.

"As you say," he continued, "I am clever."

"But," said Bessie indignantly, "I did not say that."

"You forget," replied Moore, loftily, "that a man's opinion of what a woman thinks is based largely on what she does not say."

"You surprise me, Mr. Moore. Pray explain your last a.s.sertion."

"Well, then, for example, I linger by your side and you do not say 'Go away,' so my opinion is that you wish me to remain."

"Oh," exclaimed Bessie, shocked at the mere idea of such a thing.

"You do not say 'I hate you,' so my opinion is that you l--"

"Mr. Moore," cried Bessie, sternly, and the poet diplomatically allowed her interruption to finish his remark.

"Men are so foolish," observed the girl, knitting her brows in sad contemplation of masculine idiocy. "Really it is quite saddening when one considers their stupidity."

"And yet," said Moore, "if we were not such fools you wise little ladies would find it much more difficult to work your wills."

"I am not so sure of that," said Bessie, with a sniff of superiority.

"Men are great nuisances at best."

"Had you rather I went away?" asked Moore, in his most honeyed accents.

"Shall I go?"

"You must suit your own inclination, sir," replied Bessie, too clever to be so entrapped.

"And you?" he returned. "Can't you say 'I wish you to stay'?"

"No, Mr. Moore."

"And why not, Mistress d.y.k.e?"

"Girls do not say such things to men."

Moore sighed regretfully.

"I wish they did," said he. "Don't you like me at all any more?"

"Not very much," replied Bessie, with seeming frankness.

"Won't you smile at me?"

"No," said Bessie, determinedly, "I will not."

As she spoke she turned away from the poet, but he was not to be so easily defeated.

"Bessie," he whispered tenderly. "Smile at me, dearest, smile just once."

"No," she answered firmly, "I will not. I don't have to smile if I don't wish to, do I?"

But, alas for her determination, as she replied her eyes met those of Moore; the twinkling merriment which she read in her lover's gaze was too much for her gravity, and so, in spite of her effort to keep a sober face, she smiled back at him, and if it was not the love-light that shone beneath her long lashes, it was a something so entirely like it that a wiser man than the young Irishman would have been pardonable for making such a mistake.

"Oh," he said, lovingly triumphant, "what do you think about it now?"

"Well," said Bessie, in quick equivocation, "I wanted to smile then.

You are very ridiculous, Mr. Moore."

"You make me so, Bessie."

"What did I tell you about that name?" she demanded, rising to her feet.

"I forgot, Bessie," he replied defiantly.

"If that is the case you shall have the opportunity to recall it to mind," said she, sternly, at the same time moving towards the door. But her foot caught in her skirt and as she recovered her balance with a little cry there was an ominous sound of ripping plainly heard.

"There," cried Bessie in a rage, "I 've stepped on a ruffle. It is all your fault, Tom Moore."

"Of course it is," replied the poet. "It always is, as we both know."