His voice as he spoke was filled with cruelty, though towards the end of the sentence it had sunk so low that he seemed really speaking to himself. “In that case,” I went on quickly, “I will wear as many clothes as you care to put on me—always excepting a scrubby singlet. They don’t suit me.” He laughed. “Be careful,” he said. “You were once mistaken for a woman dressed in contravention of the law.” “I know. But I should have thought the better expression would have been ‘effeminate.’” “Would you have raised no objection to be called ‘effeminate’?” he questioned. “None,” I answered. “But Deborah does.” Whereat he laughed again. “Since you have gone she has raised a kind of statue to your memory, and there you sit in lonely grandeur, for the atmosphere around is ice. Of late she has taken to dragging every man that she has ever met into this gloomy chamber, and sets them side by side with you.” “And what next?” “Well, there is rather a change in the atmosphere. So some show to disadvantage. But this comparison always pleases me, because the comparer gains no pleasure from it, but only bitterness. Many a time I have interfered and have thrown a kind of halo round you, making you more a god than mortal, so that the bitterness may be more complete.” “Do you derive pleasure from this cruelty?” “Yes. I always derive pleasure from cruelty, as you know. The more so in this case because the writer had laughed at me.” “But—” I began, but he continued,— “If people laugh at me I laugh at them when the time comes. If they hold me up to ridicule, I hold them up to ridicule when the time comes. If they speak untruthfully of me I speak untruthfully of them when the time comes.” “Really,” I interposed, yawning, “I never knew before you were so sensitive.” He laughed. “If I were not so sensitive,” he rejoined, “I should be less powerful. To make others feel one must feel oneself. Moreover, to be mixed up with one’s own slaves and menials, to be depicted as a kind of Jack-in-the-box, and described as turning from dark brown to pale brown, not to speak of other things, rather surprised me.” “Come, come, Plucritus,” I said irritably, “where’s the use of all this acting? One might think something had bitten you and put you out of temper. Surely you are having enough revenge. What more do you want?” “Nothing,” he replied moodily. Then after a pause he looked up. “Genius,” he said, “do you miss your ring?” “Very much,” I answered. “Then why don’t you buy it back?” “Not having the wherewithal to effect a change in raiment, what funds do you give me the credit of having in order to redeem jewels?” “You have the book. You can sell the book to me and regain the ring. It means freedom, you know.” “Is there anything else you would like besides the book?” I asked. “No,” he answered with that long, penetrating stare. “The first book will be quite sufficient.” “I see,” I went on. “And the writer?”