"For proposing to make me a victim." "Apparently you had small difficulty in escaping." "As you say--apparently. But perhaps I conceal my wounds." "You are trying to turn the subject, so that I will not insist about the little book." "I wish, indeed, that you would not insist." "But if I am the sort of woman you have indicated, I should think you would enjoy punishing me a little." "A little, perhaps. But the punishment would be too severe." They were walking slowly through the rooms; she turned her head and looked at him. "I have listened to you, Mr. Ford; I have let you say pretty much what you pleased to me, because it was amusing. But you cannot seriously believe that I really care for what you say, severe or otherwise?" "Only as any right-minded woman must care." "Say on. Now I insist." "Good-bye to Miolans, then. You will never admit me within its gates again; that is, unless you have the unusual justice--unusual in a woman--to see that what I say is but the severity of a true friend." "A friend is not severe." "Yes, he is; in such a case as this, must be." "Go on. I will decide afterwards." They entered the third room. Ford reflected a moment; then began. "The poem, which you now tell me is yours, had, as its distinguishing feature, a certain daring. Regarding its other points: its rhythm was crude and unmelodious; its coloring was exaggerated--reading it, one was cloyed with color; its logic--for there was an attempt at logic--was utterly weak." He paused. Mrs. Winthrop was looking straight before her at the wall across the end of the last room in the vista. Her critic did not lift his eyes, but transferred his gaze from one section of the dark old floor to the next as they walked onward.