“I know,” said Ellie. “What’s she like?” “Haven’t seen her since I was his best man. Wasn’t tempted to see more of her.” “It’s as bad as that?” “Oh, rather worse, I believe. Pitch that novel over. I’ll tell you in five minutes if it’s any use.” “Five minutes isn’t very fair to the author,” she protested. “Oh, quite. I’m a reviewer, and reviewing’s badly paid. It teaches you to rip the guts out of a novel quickly. Smoke that cigarette and I’ll tell you all about it by the time you’re through.” He fluttered the pages while she smoked. “Utter,” he decided. “Utter.” “I haven’t finished it,” she said; “but so far I agree with you.” “You’ll agree with me to the end. Pluperfect trash. Sam will love it.” “What!” “You’ll see. It’s just his line.” “Aren’t you trying to prejudice me against him?” He stared. “I’m trying to save you the trouble of reading the beastly thing. I’ve given you expert opinion. It’s trash and the brand of trash that he likes. Didn’t I tell you there, was mud in Sam?” “You told me you invented him. I don’t believe your influence has been for good.” “Don’t be hard on a fellow, Effie; I only introduced him to the mud. I didn’t know he’d wallow. Anyhow, let’s talk of something else.” “You know,” she said, “you do influence people, Dubby.” “Of course. That’s what I’m paid for. I’m a journalist. Have you never heard of the power of the Press? It means a lot of little journalists like me writing as their editors tell ‘em to. But I don’t appear to have much influence on you. I asked you to change the subject and you’re still thinking about Sam.” “Yes,” she agreed, “I’m still thinking of Sam.” “You and Sam!” he repeated, looking incredulously at her. Effie nodded. “But,” she said, “I don’t know yet.” He rose to his feet. “You’re sure, Effie? You’re sure you don’t know about him yet?” “Quite sure.” “Then you do know about me? Effie, I’ve got to ask. Are you sure about me?” She met his eyes bravely, knowing that she must hurt. She was sure she did not love Stewart, who was free, and not sure about Branstone, who was married. “I am quite, quite sure, Dubby,” she said softly. “I see,” he said. “Well, I’m not the sort that pesters, but if you want me, Effie, if you find you want me, I’ll be there. I... I suppose I’d better go now. It will take some doing to change the subject after this.” “Dubby, I’m sorry. You’re not well, and----” She could see him trembling. “Not that, old thing,” he interrupted. “Not pity. That would make me really ill. Love’s just a thing that happens along, but one starter doesn’t make a race.” He held out his hand. “Well, doctor’s orders to go to bed early. Good-night.” “Good-night, Dubby,” she said, and added hesitatingly: “You’ll come on Sunday?” “Lord, yes,” he said. “I don’t love and run away. Good-night.”