“If you wish it I will come away, but can you show me another place as good?” “I really don’t know,” she answered. “You have such peculiar tastes. Suppose, instead of moving about, you go to the library and write.” “Write what?” “Oh, don’t ask me. Anything.” “I never wrote a line in my life,” I rejoined irritably, turning off on a path away from her. But if by that I hoped or thought to get rid of her I was much mistaken. She followed me without speaking the whole length of a rhododendron walk, and then through a bower twined with honeysuckle and red roses. At the end of it I turned to her again. “Well?” said I. “I’ve hit on an excellent plan,” she answered, as if irritation were a thing unknown to her. “Indeed,” I exclaimed. “Then like all excellent things it can keep.” And I walked on. At last we came back again to the long terrace and I began to ascend the steps, but she ran up them lightly and waited on the top step right in my path. “I’ve thought of an excellent plan,” she ventured, when I was still three steps from her. “What is it?” “You and I shall write a play together. I will write it and you can dictate it. That will be excellent, it will pass the time away.” I smiled. “If I helped you to write it, that would be a sure guarantee that it would fail.” She shook her head. “Not at all,” she cried. “When you got too prosy I would put in a dash of my own position to enliven it.” “Then we should get to quarreling,” I interposed. “Not we,” she said. “I should have the common sense to keep my remarks to myself.” “I see. And who would act it when written?” “We would. I don’t mean you, but myself and some of my friends. Come, let’s go.” But I shook my head. “I have not the slightest inclination to write plays at the present moment, nor to dictate them.” And I sat down on the steps. After a minute’s hesitation she sat down too. “I’ve hit on another plan,” she suggested. “What is it?” “Let us quarrel.” “You may begin; if it seems worth while I will join you.” She got up without speaking, and passing behind me came and sat down by my side. I passed no remark, neither did I move. She waited for a little while, then very quietly she laid her left hand on mine—and there certainly was cause enough for dispute, since on her middle finger shone my own ring—the one with which I had sacrificed everything except existence. I stared at it in surprise and displeasure and then at her. “Who gave you that?” “I think I must have stolen it,” she answered, and still she left her hand in mine. Then as quietly as I could I removed her hand and got up. She rose also, and into her eyes had flashed all that anger which I had occasionally seen gleam in the eyes of Plucritus. “Why do you not ask me for it?” she said. “It is not yours to return,” I replied. I remember at this she laughed scornfully and drew the ring from her finger and looked at it.