"Here and now. Where could we find a more appropriate atmosphere?" He seated himself and opened the parcel; within was a small square book in flexible covers, in decoration paper and type, a daintily rich little volume. "Ah! I know this," he said. "I read it when it first came out." "So much the better. You can give me your opinion without the trouble of reading." "It received a good deal of praise, I remember," he said, turning over the leaves. She was silent. "There was a charming little description somewhere--about going out on the Campagna to gather the wild narcissus," he went on, after a pause. And then there was another silence. "But--" said Mrs. Winthrop. "But, as you kindly suggest, I am no judge of poetry. I can say nothing of value." "Say it, valuable or not. Do you know, Mr. Ford, that you have scarcely spoken one really truthful word to me since we first met. Yet I feel sure that it does not come natural to you, and that it has cost you some trouble to--to--" "To decorate, as I have, my plain speech. But if that is true, is it not a compliment?" "And do I care for your compliments? I have compliments in abundance, and much finer ones than yours. What I want from you is the truth, your real opinion of that little volume in your hand. You are the only man I have met in years who seems to feel no desire to flatter me, to make me think well of myself. I see no reason why I should not think well of myself; but, all the same, I am curious. I can see that you judge me impartially, even severely." She paused. He did not look up or disclaim; he went on turning the pages of the little volume. She had not seated herself; she was standing beside a table opposite him. "I can see that you do not in the least like me," she added, in a lower tone. "My dear lady, you have so many to like you!" said Ford. And then he did look up; their eyes met. A flush came to her cheeks. He shut the little book and rose. "Really, I am too insignificant a victim," he said, bowing as he returned it. "You mean that I--that I have tried--" "Oh no; you do it naturally." For the moment her self-possession had failed her. But now she had it in hand again. "If I _have_ tried, naturally or artificially, I have made a failure--have I not?" "It must be a novel experience for Mrs. Winthrop." She turned away and looked at a portrait of Voltaire. After some moments, "Let us come back to the real point between us," she said, as he did not speak--"that is, your opinion of my little book." "Is that the real point between us?" "Of course it is. We will walk up and down Corinne's old rooms, and you shall tell me as we walk." "Why do you force me to say unpleasant things?" "They are unpleasant, then? I knew it! Unpleasant for me." "For us both." "For you, I doubt it. For me, they cannot be more unpleasant than the things you have already said. Yet you see I forgive them." "Yes; but I have not forgiven you, Mrs. Winthrop." "For what, pray?"