So they drew up their chairs and talked. They talked of books, of dead men, and of great ambitions. Under the influence of her society Wynne seemed to lose much of his arrogance and cynicism. He spoke of the things he loved naturally and with reverence. Ever and again he would dart to the shelves for a volume and read some passage to the point of the subject they had been discussing. Then he would throw it aside and paraphrase with a clear and almost inspired insight. “One should always paraphrase,” he said. “One should paraphrase one’s own thoughts and every one else’s. It’s the sure way of getting down to basic facts. If I were to produce a play of Shakespeare’s I should make every actor translate his lines into colloquial schoolboy English. Then we should know he had his meanings right. Some glimmer of that necessity occurred to me the first time I went to a theatre, but now I see how absolutely essential it is.” The talk always led back to himself. His own ego was the all-important factor. “Extraordinary wrong most people are in their ideas!” “When will you start to put them right?” He looked at her keenly—on guard lest she should be laughing at him. But the question was sincere enough. “Oh, I don’t know,” he answered. “I don’t believe in beginnings—gradual ascent, ladder of fame, and all that. Life to me is divided into two halves—the period of finding out and the period of handing out. I don’t intend to be a person who is beginning to be spoken of. When I am spoken of it will be by every one—simultaneously. In the meantime it is better to be obscure—and absorbent.” “You want success.” “I shall have it too.” “For the world’s sake.” “Ye-es—and for mine.” Quarter after quarter boomed out from the neighbouring clocks. It was after two when Eve rose and took her coat from the nail on the door. “You going?” “Yes.” “Shall I walk with you?” “No, it isn’t far.” “Very well—I want to work too. But you’ll come again, won’t you?” “If I may.” “’Course you may. You must. You’re an easy person—easier than I’d have thought possible—you sort of—don’t bother me. Take a Walter Pater with you. Better for you than Meredith. Treat it gently, though; I starved a whole week to buy that book.” She took the white-vellum bound volume, nodded, and tucked it under her arm. “Good-night.” “’Night. You are rather an admirable person.” “Am I?” “Yes. A girl is generally frightened to be in a man’s rooms in the middle of the night.” “It wouldn’t occur to me to be frightened of you,” said Eve. “Why not?” “A man who starved for a week to buy this.” She touched the book under her arm. For some reason her gently spoken words piqued him, and he replied: “Yet I am a man just the same.” “A man but not the same,” she said, and, smiling, passed out on to the landing. She had descended the first flight before he moved and followed her to the front door. “I will walk back with you.” It was what any man would have said.