Oliver, as they called her, was flushed with excitement, and kept on telling Mendel that he was the prettiest boy she had ever seen. She called Logan "Pip"--"Pip darling," "Pip dearest," "Pipkin" and "Pipsy"--because she said he was like an orange-pip, bitter and hard in the midst of sweetness. "Pip says you're a genius," she said to Mendel. "What does he mean?" Mendel disliked her, though he tried hard to persuade himself that she was charming. He was baffled by the solemnity with which Logan was taking her, for she seemed to him the type made for occasional solace and not for companionship. Exploring her with his mind and instinct, she seemed to him soft and pulpy, not unlike an orange, and if she and Logan were to set up a common life, then he would be like a pip indeed. . . . How could he explain to her the nature of genius? Can you explain the night to an insect that lives but an hour in the morning? "I don't know," he said brusquely. Logan was dimly aware that his friend and his girl were not pleasing each other, and he set himself to keep them amused. He succeeded fairly well, but his humour was forced, for he was under the spell of the girl and the thought of the adventure to which she had consented. She knew it, and was loud and shrill and triumphant, continually setting Mendel's teeth on edge, for the purity of his instinct was disgusted by the blurring and swamping of life by any emotion, and the quality of hers was not such as to win indulgence. "Logan will tell you what genius is," he said. "She'll find that out soon enough if she lives with me," growled Logan a little pompously. Oliver put her head on one side and looked languishingly at Mendel as she drawled:-- "It's a pity you haven't got a nice girl. Then there would be four of us." "Don't be a fool!" snapped Logan. "What does he want with girls at his age?" Oliver's lips trembled and she pouted in protest. "I only thought it would be nice to round off the party. When you're in love you can't help wanting everybody else to have some too." Mendel was torn between dislike of her and admiration of Logan's masterful handling of the problem of desire. . . . No nonsense about getting married or falling in love. He saw the woman he wanted and took her and made her his property, and the woman could not but acquiesce, as Oliver had done. In a dozen different ways she acknowledged Logan's lordship, even in her deliberate efforts to exasperate him. Their relationship seemed to Mendel simple and excellent, and he envied them. How easy his life would become if he could do the same! What freedom there would be in having a woman to throw in her lot with his! It would settle all his difficulties, absolve him from his dependence on his family, and deliver him from the attentions of unworthy women. "How shall we dress her?" asked Logan. Mendel took out his sketch-book and drew a rough portrait of Oliver in a gown tight-fitting above the waist and full in the skirt.