"Perhaps, from one point of view, too humanely. Well, it's the writer of that article--a young fellow, not twenty-five, yet as completely at odds with life as any one I ever saw. He has a great deal of talent, and no health or money; so he's toiling feebly for a living on a daily newspaper, instead of making literature. He was a reporter up to the time he wrote that article, but the managing editor is a man who recognizes quality; he's fond of Maxwell--that's the fellow's name--and since then he's given him a chance in the office, at social topics. But he hasn't done very well; the fact is, the boy's too literary, and he's out of health, and he needs rest and the comfort of appreciative friendship. I want you to meet him. I've got him up at my place out of the east winds. You'll be interested in him as a type--the artistic type cynicised by the hard conditions of life--newspaper conditions, and then economic conditions." Matt smiled with satisfaction in what he felt to be his very successful formulation of Maxwell. Wade said he should be very glad to meet him; and if he could be of any use to him he should be even more glad. But his mind was still upon Matt's love affair, and as they wrung each other's hands, once more he said, "I think you've decided _so_ wisely, Matt; and justly and unselfishly." "It's involuntary unselfishness, if it's unselfishness at all," said Matt. He did not go; Wade stood bareheaded with him at the outer door of his study. After awhile he said with embarrassment, "Wade! Do you think it would seem unfeeling--or out of taste, at all--if I went to see her at such a time?" "Why, I can't imagine _your_ doing anything out of taste, Matt." "Don't be so smooth, Caryl! You know what I mean. Louise sent some messages by me to her. Will you take them, or--" "I certainly see no reason why you shouldn't deliver Miss Hilary's messages yourself." "Well, I do," said Matt. "But you needn't be afraid." XI.