She did not look at him while she moved about, nevertheless Wilfred felt that he was being explored with a faculty other than sight—that withdrawn glance of hers; that hint of a smile. In haste he said, still in the tone of one determined not to be perfunctory—he could hear it! “How is your work going?” At the tone, her smile deepened; but she answered simply: “I’ve been working at the ‘Æolian Harp.’ I’d like you to read part of it later.” “I expect I shan’t like it,” he said. “A little bird tells me you have been niggling at it. I warned you to leave it alone. It was all right as it was.” An adorable look of anxiety came into Frances Mary’s face. It gave Wilfred a pleasant sense of power. She came to a stop; looking at him; biting her lip. “I . . . I thought I had improved it,” she faltered. “Your vice is, never knowing when to leave a thing alone,” he said severely. “You lose sight of the whole in the parts.” “I expect I do,” she said with a disarming humility. “Your criticism is awfully good for me. . . . What are you doing?” Wilfred relapsed into the depths. “Nothing,” he said. The blackness was real enough; but he equivocated respecting its cause. For days past he had not even tried to write. “I’m still stuck in the middle of my restaurant story.” “What’s the matter with it?” “Too damn sentimental!” Frances Mary was silent. Wilfred found he was not so deadened, but that he could still feel the pin-pricks of wounded self-love. “You don’t say anything,” he said bitterly. “You think it’s tripe, too.” “Oh, not as bad as that!” she said. “The sentimentality was implicit in the original design. . . .” “Why didn’t you tell me so then?” “I tried to, but you wouldn’t have it so. . . . Why not finish it now, frankly in a sentimental vein; and go on to something else.” “Why not advise me to tear it up?” “But it has charm. It will sell readily.” “You think that’s all I’m good for!” She shook her head. “You can be as brutal as you like, next time. Your Rivington street story wasn’t sentimental.” “Ah! don’t throw that up to me! I’ve never been able to equal it!” “Every artist knows that feeling!” “You manage to maintain the level of your stuff. It makes me sore, you write so much better than I do!” Frances Mary smiled somewhat dryly. “I’ve been at it longer than you.” “That hasn’t got anything to do with it. You have an instinct for perfection, while I’m all over the place!” “Perfect stories of perfect ladies to adorn the chaste pages of our leading family magazine!” she said, smiling still. “It doesn’t matter what they’re about, they’re well done!” said Wilfred. “I suppose I do write better than you do now,” she said, ceasing to smile. “But my work is much the same as it was ten years ago when I began. There is more hope in your unevenness than in my dead level.” “I truckle to the editors,” said Wilfred glooming.