In the fine large cosy living-room afterward they _played intellectual games_. My dear, I thought I should die. I could not leave in common decency before ten o’clock, and for a mortal hour I listened to the brilliant Mrs. Laurence exhibit the most wonderful fertility, ingenuity, and resource, switching her noisy tail round the polished floor till it hissed like a harassed snake. She was in white embroidered mousseline de soie and silk--Oh, much and noisy silk--and she wore turquoises, and altogether looked like an advertisement for the calling of letters. Her rival, Mr. Rolfs, had retreated from the field--probably to the roof--and I don’t exaggerate when I say that the others never took their eyes off her, with the exception of some of the men, who went to sleep. Finally, I could stand it no longer, and I went over and sat down by Miss Simpson, who seemed to be as much out of it as I was, and who, since she had failed to catch the spirit of the thing, was endeavouring to look superior to contemptible frivolities. “A very brilliant woman,” I said, beginning with the obvious. “I guess there’s not much use disputing that fact,” she answered with an expression which conveyed to me that this remark was intended as grim humour. “And if she were not, she’s clever enough to make people think so.” “Do you admire that particular form of brilliancy?” I asked, longing to hear her say what I thought; but she answered emphatically: “I admire success. When you strive for that and get it you’re entitled to all the applause there is, whether it is the brand some one else would strike out for or not. I have succeeded in my way and she acknowledges it and me; therefore, I take off my hat to her. I have aimed for something more solid; but because I prefer to spend my money on oil paintings there is no law against my patting the dainty water-colourist on the back. And I do--every time. So long as a person does not get in my way he can have a whole road to himself and welcome.” Here was genuine frankness, no doubt of that. She prided herself upon it and was quite aware that she was impressing me, but it was the sort of insolent frankness that compels belief. I asked her if she was not the author of ----[A] which I had read recently, and she thawed perceptibly and even gave me a very charming smile. To draw her on I praised the novel highly--it was clever but sketchy and betrayed no knowledge of the world whatever--and she thanked me very pleasantly and admitted that she hoped to make an even greater success with her second one. “I have had some very fortunate experiences since I wrote that,” she said. “I have watched a love affair progress right under my nose, and I was visiting a friend of mine when her husband was accidentally killed. She was a wonderful psychological study in her grief!” and she set her mouth, as if overcome by the responsibility of her own brain. “Good God!” I exclaimed.