‘It is my turn to say I don’t understand,’ said Valdis, wonderingly. ‘I thought you would naturally be as annoyed at that insolent paragraph as I was—and I took instant means to punish—’ ‘Oh, the paragraph again!’ murmured Delicia, wearily. ‘What does it matter? If the newspapers said you were me, or I were you, or that we had been married and separated, or that we danced a hornpipe together on the sly whenever we could get a chance, why should we care? Who that has any common sense cares for the half-crown or five-shilling paragraphist? And who, having brains at all, pays any attention to society journalism?’ ‘Brains or no brains,’ said Valdis, hotly, ‘it does one good to thrash a liar now and then, whether he be in journalism or out of it, and I have given Mr Brown, _alias_ Aubrey Grovelyn, good cause to remember me this time. I only hope he’ll have sufficient spirit left to summon me for assault, that I may defend myself and state openly in a court of justice what a precious rascal he is!’ ‘Aubrey Grovelyn!’ echoed Delicia, with a half smile, ‘why, that’s the man the press has been “booming” lately, isn’t it? Calling him a “second Shakespeare and Milton combined?” Oh, dear! And you have actually beaten this marvel of the ages!’ She began to laugh—the natural vivacity of her nature asserted itself for a moment, and her face lightened with all that brilliant animation which gave it its chiefest charm. Valdis looked at her, and, despite the heat of his own conflicting emotions, smiled. ‘Yes, I have beaten him like a dog,’ he responded, ‘though why I should do the noble race to which Spartan belongs, a wrong by mentioning it in connection with a creature like Grovelyn, I do not know. Spartan, old boy, I ask your pardon! The booming you speak of, Lady Carlyon, has in every instance been done by Grovelyn himself. It is he and he alone who has styled himself “Shakespeare and Milton _redivivus_,” and his self-log-rolling scheme was so cunningly devised that it was rather difficult to find him out. But I have been on the watch some time, and have hunted him down at last. He has been on the staff of the _Daily Chanticleer_ for two years as Alfred Brown, and in that character has managed to work up “a new poet” in Aubrey Grovelyn, the said Aubrey Grovelyn being himself. I understand, however, that it is not at all an original idea on his part; the same thing has been and is being done by several other fellows like him. But you are not listening, Lady Carlyon. I suppose I am boring you—’ ‘Not at all,’ and Delicia turned her eyes upon him kindly; ‘and you mistake,—I was listening very attentively. I was thinking what miserable tricks and mean devices some people will stoop to in order to secure notoriety. I do not speak of fame—fame is a different thing, much harder to win, much heavier to bear.’