To-night the woman was unable to give him her whole-hearted attention. Audrey was disturbed and preoccupied. Ted was lounging at the back of her chair, hanging on her words; Wyndham and Miss Armstrong were sitting on the other side of her, and she felt herself straining every nerve to catch what they were saying. "Yes," said Miss Armstrong in the tone of a proud parent, "'Through Fire to Moloch' was my first. In that book I threw down the gauntlet to Society. It shrugged its shoulders and took no notice. My second, 'Sour Grapes,' was a back-hander in its face. It shrieked that time, but it read 'Sour Grapes.'" "Which at once increased the demand for 'Through Fire to Moloch.' I congratulate you." Miss Armstrong ignored the impertinent parenthesis. "The critics abused me, but I expected that. They are men, and it was the men I exposed----" Knowles, who was standing near, smiled, and blushed when he caught himself smiling. Wyndham laughed frankly at his confusion, and Audrey grew hot and cold by turns. What was the dreadful joke those two had about Miss Armstrong? She leaned back and looked up at Ted sweetly. "Ted, I should like to introduce you to Mr. Knowles. He'll tell you all about that illustrated thing you wanted to get on to." "I'm afraid," said Knowles, "that's not in my line: I don't know anything about any illustrated things." "Well, never mind; I want you to know something about Mr. Haviland, anyhow." This was just what Knowles wanted himself. He was deeply interested in the situation as far as he understood it, and he looked forward to its development. This little diversion created, Miss Armstrong continued with imperturbable calm. But Audrey, listening with one ear to Mr. Flaxman Reed, only heard the livelier parts of the dialogue. "Life isn't all starched linen and eau-de-Cologne," said Miss Armstrong, sententiously. "Did I ever say it was?" returned Wyndham. "Virtually you do. You turn your back on average humanity." "Pardon me, I do nothing of the kind. I use discrimination." "Nature has no discrimination." "Exactly. And Nature has no consideration for our feelings, and very little maidenly reserve. Therefore we've invented Art." Audrey leaned forward eagerly. She felt an unusual exaltation. At last she was in the centre of intellectual life, carried on by the whirl of ideas. She answered her companion at random. "Yes," Mr. Flaxman Reed was saying, "my work _is_ disheartening. Half my parish are animals, brutalised by starvation, degraded out of all likeness to men and women." "How dreadful! What hard work it must be!" "Hard enough to find decent food and clothing for their bodies. But to have to 'create a soul under those ribs of death'----" he paused. His voice seemed suddenly to run dry. "Yes," said Audrey in her buoyant staccato, "I can't think how you manage it."