“My dear Embury, life is too short. That girl was all wrong. She worked her syllogisms backward, so to speak. Her intellect was molten with the heat of her imagination, and stunted with the narrowness of her experience. She reasoned from effect to cause. Her characters, instead of being the carefully considered products of environment and heredity, were always altered or distorted to suit some dramatic event. Intellect without experience of the heart and of life is responsible for more errors than innate viciousness which is controlled by worldly wisdom, or natural folly which is clothed in the gown of accumulated knowledge. I have seen so many clever writers go to pieces,” he added, regarding his empty plate with a sigh; “they lie so. They have no conscience whatever, and they are too clever to see it.” “Then how can they help themselves?” asked Hermia, with a puzzled look. “They had better wait until they can.” Hermia did not care to pursue the subject, and saw, moreover, that Embury was waiting to be heard. “What would journalism do if no one knew how to lie?” she asked him, with a smile, and was somewhat surprised when every man at the table except Embury laughed aloud. Embury colored, but replied promptly: “It would probably die for want of patronage.” “You are right, Embury,” said Cryder. “You could not have found a more appreciative field for your talents.” Embury looked at him reproachfully, and Cryder continued: “I never could resist the temptation to kick a friend when he was down. I will give you an opportunity later.” “Life is made up of lost opportunities—I probably shall not see it. True, I might review your books, but to do so I should have to read them.” “Is this the way literary people always spar?” murmured Hermia to Cryder. “Oh! do not let it worry you,” he replied. “This is only facetiousness—American humor. It doesn’t hurt.” He dropped his voice. “Are you not well? You look tired.” “I am tired,” said Hermia, returning his gaze—he seemed very near to her at that moment. “Clever people, singly, are very delightful, but _en masse_ they keep one on the rack.” “Don’t bother any more!” said Cryder. “Leave them to me; I will take care of them.” “You are good,” murmured Hermia. “When I am old I shall like a _salon_; I shall like the power of it. Now—it bores me a little.” Cryder bent somewhat nearer to her. “Do not wait too long for anything,” he murmured. “A man’s power comes with age; a woman’s power goes with age.”