Just as he was about to accept her invitation, Twinkles entered, her tail erect, and hopping on the couch, planted herself between them. She had the prim air of a dog who is the custodian of her mistress’s morals. Desire began to toy with the silky ears. “My little chaperone knows what’s best for me, I guess.--Meester Deek doesn’t love ’oo, Twinkles. He thinks ’oo’s a very interfering little doggie.” He did. Despite his best efforts Twinkles growled at him and refused to be friends. She was continually making his emotion ridiculous. She timed her absurdly sedate entrances for the moments when the cloud of his pent-up feelings was about to burst. “_Love’s Labor Lost_ or _Divided by a Dog._” Desire glanced, through her lashes laughingly. “You could write a play on it Twinkles and I could take the leading parts without rehearsing.” After his discovery that she had read his book he began to try to interest her in his work--his contemplated work which was scarcely commenced while she kept him waiting. She seemed pleased when he placed his manuscripts in her lap. She loved to play the part of his severest critic, sweeping tempestuously aside all ideas that she pronounced unworthy of him. The only side of his career in which she failed to show interest was the financial. The mere mention of money made her shrivel up. He had hoped that if he could persuade her to talk about it, he might be able to confess his straitened circumstances. He guessed the reason for her delicacy and respected it: concern on her part over his bank-account might make her look grasping. After each vain attempt to broach the subject, he would dodge back to cover as if he hadn’t meant it, and would commence to tell her hurriedly of his dreams of fame. While he did it, a comic little smile would keep tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I don’t think you’re wasting time with me,” she said. “I know I’m not.” “But I meant something different. I meant that you’re learning about life; I’m making awfully good copy for you. One day, when I’m a famous actress and you’re married to some nice little woman who’s jealous of me, you’ll write a book--a most heart-rending book--that’ll make her still more jealous. It’ll be a kind of sequel to _Life Till Twenty-one_, I guess. All experience, however much it costs, is valuable.--You’re laughing at me. But isn’t it?” “You wise little person.” “Just common-sense--and not so terribly little, either,” she corrected.