"Then you would have been a weak as well as wicked woman," I said in a tone of disgust. I do hate sensationalism. "Oh no, you know nothing about it. I should have destroyed only this poor worn tenement of clay. But I can well understand how _you_ would look upon it. Regarding the desirableness of life the prince and the beggar may have different opinions.--We will say no more of it, but talk of the drama instead." As she spoke the word "drama" a triumphant brightness came into her eyes. I took the manuscript from a drawer and sat down beside her. "I suppose you know that there are faults," I said, expecting ready acquiescence. "I was not aware that there were any," was her gentle reply. Here was a beginning! After all my interest in her--and, I may say under the circumstances, my kindness--she received me in this way! However, my belief in her genius was too sincere to be altered by her whimsies; so I persevered. "Let us go over it together," I said. "Shall I read it to you, or will you read it to me?" "I will not read it, but recite it." "That will never do; you will recite it so well that we shall see only the good points, and what we have to concern ourselves with now is the bad ones." "I will recite it," she repeated. "Now, Miss Crief," I said bluntly, "for what purpose did you come to me? Certainly not merely to recite: I am no stage-manager. In plain English, was it not your idea that I might help you in obtaining a publisher?" "Yes, yes," she answered, looking at me apprehensively, all her old manner returning. I followed up my advantage, opened the little paper volume and began. I first took the drama line by line, and spoke of the faults of expression and structure; then I turned back and touched upon two or three glaring impossibilities in the plot. "Your absorbed interest in the motive of the whole no doubt made you forget these blemishes," I said apologetically. But, to my surprise, I found that she did not see the blemishes--that she appreciated nothing I had said, comprehended nothing. Such unaccountable obtuseness puzzled me. I began again, going over the whole with even greater minuteness and care. I worked hard: the perspiration stood in beads upon my forehead as I struggled with her--what shall I call it--obstinacy? But it was not exactly obstinacy. She simply could not see the faults of her own work, any more than a blind man can see the smoke that dims a patch of blue sky. When I had finished my task the second time she still remained as gently impassive as before. I leaned back in my chair exhausted, and looked at her. Even then she did not seem to comprehend (whether she agreed with it or not) what I must be thinking. "It is such a heaven to me that you like it!" she murmured dreamily, breaking the silence. Then, with more animation, "And _now_ you will let me recite it?" I was too weary to oppose her; she threw aside her shawl and bonnet, and, standing in the centre of the room, began.