“You interest me, friend John. Is Saul also among the prophets? Expound.” Kent roughly sketched the morning's episode in the studio. “So, you see, there's something in the nature of a split,” he added. “She will come round all right,” said Wither, “if she cares about you. If she doesn't, she is not worth caring about. Never you mind. There is nothing does women so much good as a little wholesome neglect. _Crede experto_. As for the matter in question, of course you were wrong. You should have thrashed the little devil's life out. But with a woman, having right or wrong on her side has nothing to do with it.” “That may be true in the case of the woman you like to philander with, Teddy, but Clytie Davenant's different.” “Bah, my dear old boy, they are all the same, every one of them.” “You have never met one of them whom you could treat in the ordinary straightforward way--make a friend of as if she were a man.” “No, old chap, nor do I want to. If you've got to treat a woman as if she were a man, what the devil's the good of her being a woman?” “You are talking for the sake of talking, Teddy,” said Kent with some earnestness. “You know it's all nonsense. Women generally are foolish enough, God knows, but the sole end of their being is not to be fooled about with in flirtations and love-makings and such sickening nonsense. And when one does come across a girl with an intelligence above the ordinary and instincts above bazaars and the river, one likes her and is exceedingly sorry to have any row with her.” “Ah me!” murmured the little man, examining his trim finger nails with intent brow, “whether we cultivate the 'languor and lilies of virtue,' or the 'roses and raptures of vice,' it doesn't matter--the trail of the petticoat's over us all. Come and have a 'hundred up' before dinner.” Kent did not carry home the ridiculous portrait, and Wither, to avoid the trouble of taking with him the awkwardly sized parcel that would not fit into his pocket, very characteristically posted it to himself. As Kent passed Clytie's door he noticed that it was ajar and that the room was dark. Evidently she had gone out. If she had retired early to bed, she would have shut the door, as her bedroom opened into the sitting-room. He felt a certain sense of loss, he did not know why, for even if the little streak of light beneath the door had announced her presence within, he certainly would not have sought admittance. He went upstairs more slowly than usual, thinking of her and of the morning's scene. By the dim gas on his landing he perceived an unframed picture leaning, face-hidden, against his door, and on the ground a letter. This was addressed to him in the bold, rounded handwriting which he recognised as Clytie's. He opened it and read: You were right. I am sorry. Keep the picture as a token. C. D. Kent turned the canvas round. It was the exhibition picture of Jack.