May tossed her hands in a girlish gesture of disdain. "I hate people that call everything cynical. It is a thing that they just say to sound wise. 'Love in a Cloud' is to me one of the truest books I ever read. Why, you take that scene where she tells him she cares for him just the same in spite of his disgrace. It brings the tears into my eyes every time I read it." A new light came into the young man's face as she spoke in her impulsive, girlish fashion. He was a handsome fellow, with well-bred face. He stroked his silky mustache with an air not unsuggestive of complacency. "It is delightful," said he, "to find somebody who really appreciates the book for what is best in it. Of course there are a great many people who say nice things about it, but they don't seem to go to the real heart of it as you do." "Oh, the story has so much heart," she returned. Then she regarded him quizzically. "You speak almost as if you had written it yourself." "Oh, I--That is--Why, you see," he answered, in evident confusion, "I suppose that my being an embryo literary man myself makes it natural for me to take the point of view of the author. Most readers of a novel, you know, care for nothing but the plot, and see nothing else." "Oh, it is not the plot," May cried enthusiastically. "I like that, of course, but what I really care for is the feeling in the book." Jack Neligage, with his eyes on Alice Endicott, had made his way over to the tea-table, and came up in time to hear this. "The book, Miss Calthorpe?" he repeated. "Oh, you must be talking of that everlasting novel. I wish I had had the good luck to write it." "Oh, I should adore you if you had, Mr. Neligage." "By Jove, then I'll swear I did write it." Fairfield regarded the girl with heightened color. "You had better be careful, Miss Calthorpe," he commented. "The real author might hear you." She started in pretty dismay, and covered with her hand the flower nestling under her chin. "Oh, he is not here!" she cried. "How do you know that?" demanded Jack laughingly. She sank back into the corner of the sofa with a blush far deeper than could be called for by the situation. "Oh, I just thought so," she said. "Who is there here that could have written it?" "Why, Dick here is always scribbling," Neligage returned, with a chuckle. "Perhaps you have been telling him what you thought of his book." The face of Fairfield grew suddenly sober. "Come, Jack," he said, rising, "that's too stupid a joke to be worthy of you." He was seized at that moment by Mrs. Harbinger, who presented him to Miss Wentstile. Fairfield had been presented to Miss Wentstile a dozen times in the course of the two winters since he had graduated at Harvard and settled in Boston; but since she never seemed to recognize him, he gave no sign of remembering her. "Miss Wentstile," the hostess said, "don't you know Mr. Fairfield? He is one of our literary lights now, you know."