"I am a girl of ambition," repeated Adeline, "and I realize that the fulfilment of my ambitions must come through my husband. I am very ordinary myself----" "What!" cried Cuthbert. "You ordinary? Why, you are a pearl among women, the queen of your sex. You can't have been looking in a glass lately. You stand alone. Simply alone. You make the rest look like battered repaints." "Well," said Adeline, softening a trifle, "I believe I am fairly good-looking----" "Anybody who was content to call you fairly good-looking would describe the Taj Mahal as a pretty nifty tomb." "But that is not the point. What I mean is, if I marry a nonentity I shall be a nonentity myself for ever. And I would sooner die than be a nonentity." "And, if I follow your reasoning, you think that that lets _me_ out?" "Well, really, Mr. Banks, _have_ you done anything, or are you likely ever to do anything worth while?" Cuthbert hesitated. "It's true," he said, "I didn't finish in the first ten in the Open, and I was knocked out in the semi-final of the Amateur, but I won the French Open last year." "The--what?" "The French Open Championship. Golf, you know." "Golf! You waste all your time playing golf. I admire a man who is more spiritual, more intellectual." A pang of jealousy rent Cuthbert's bosom. "Like What's-his-name Devine?" he said, sullenly. "Mr. Devine," replied Adeline, blushing faintly, "is going to be a great man. Already he has achieved much. The critics say that he is more Russian than any other young English writer." "And is that good?" "Of course it's good." "I should have thought the wheeze would be to be more English than any other young English writer." "Nonsense! Who wants an English writer to be English? You've got to be Russian or Spanish or something to be a real success. The mantle of the great Russians has descended on Mr. Devine." "From what I've heard of Russians, I should hate to have that happen to _me_." "There is no danger of that," said Adeline scornfully. "Oh! Well, let me tell you that there is a lot more in me than you think." "That might easily be so." "You think I'm not spiritual and intellectual," said Cuthbert, deeply moved. "Very well. Tomorrow I join the Literary Society." Even as he spoke the words his leg was itching to kick himself for being such a chump, but the sudden expression of pleasure on Adeline's face soothed him; and he went home that night with the feeling that he had taken on something rather attractive. It was only in the cold, grey light of the morning that he realized what he had let himself in for.