"But if it never came?" "It would--if she had not been so eager and voracious. The truth is, Corinne was an inordinate egotist. She expected all minds to defer to her superiority, while at the very moment she was engaged in extracting from them any poor little knowledge or ideas they might possess which could serve her own purposes. All her books were talked into existence; she talked them before she wrote them. It was her custom, at the dinner-table here at Coppet, to introduce the subject upon which she was engaged, and all her guests were expected, indeed forced, to discuss it with her in all its bearings, to listen to all she herself had to say, and never to depart from the given line by the slightest digression until she gave the signal. The next morning, closeted in her own room, she wrote out the results of all this, and it became a chapter." "She was a woman of genius, all the same," said Mrs. Winthrop, in a disagreeing tone. "A woman of genius! And what is the very term but a stigma? No woman is so proclaimed by the great brazen tongue of the Public unless she has thrown away her birthright of womanly seclusion for the miserable mess of pottage called 'fame.'" "The seclusion of a convent? or a prison?" "Neither. Of a home." "You perhaps commend obedience, also?" "In one way--yes." "I'm glad to know there are other ways." "I shall be very obedient to the woman I love in several of those other ways," replied Ford, gathering some of the ripening grapes near the balcony rail. Mrs. Winthrop went back into the faded drawing-room. "It is a pity there is no portrait here of Madame Récamier," she remarked. "That you might have admired." "The 'incomparable Juliette' was at least not literary. But in another way she was as much before the public as though she had been what you call a woman of genius. It may be said, indeed, that she had genius--a genius for attracting admiration." "You are hard to please." "Not at all; I ask only the simple and retiring womanly graces. But anything retiring was hard to find in the eighteenth century." "You dislike literary women very much," said Mrs. Winthrop. She had crossed the room to examine an old mirror made of squares of glass, welded together by little leaden frames, which had once been gilded. "Hardly. I pity them." "You did not know, then, that I was one?" He had crossed the room also, and was now standing behind her; as she asked the question she looked at his image in the glass. "I did not know it," he answered, looking at hers. "I am, anonymously." "Better anonymously than avowedly." "Will you read something I have written?" "Thanks. I am not in the least a critic." "I know that; you are too prejudiced, too narrow, to be one. All the same, will you read?" "If you insist." "I do insist. What is more, I have it with me. I have had it for several days, waiting for a good opportunity." She drew from her pocket a small flat package, and gave it to him. "Must it be now?"