"Very. I recalled my acceptance of his story, and declined to discuss future work with him. I have deprived the _Ibex_ of a contributor who might possibly have become a very valuable one, and I have gone back upon my word. I want to know why." "I am afraid," she said softly, "that it was for me." "For you," he answered, "of course. But your letter hinted at an explanation." "Explanations" she yawned, "are so tedious." "Tell me, at least," he said, "how the poor young idiot offended you." "Offended me! Scarcely that." "You are not a woman" he said, "to interfere in anything without a cause." "I am a woman of whim," she said. "You have told me so many times." "You are a very wonderful woman," he said softly, "and you know very well that your will is quite sufficient for me. Yet you are also a generous woman. I have many a time had to stand godfather to your literary foundlings. You have never yet exercised the contrary privilege. I have done a mean thing and an ungenerous thing, and though I would do it again at your bidding, again and again, I should like an excuse--if there is any excuse." "I am so sorry," she said. "There will be no excuse for you. I, too, have been mean and ungenerous--but I should be the same again. I took some interest in that young man, and I offered him my help. He coolly declined it--talked of succeeding by his own exertions. So priggish, you know, and I felt bound to let him see that the path to literary fame was not altogether the pleasant highway he seemed to expect." "That was all?" "Everything." "He wounded your vanity; you stoop to retaliate." She beamed upon him. "How nice of you to be so candid. I value frankness from my friends more than anything in the world. "It is the exact truth!" "It was unworthy of you," he said shortly. She shrugged her shoulders. "You think much too well of me," she said. "You know I am a woman to the finger tips." "I don't call that a womanly action," he said. "Ah! that is because you know nothing of women." There was a moment's silence. From a distant room, dimly seen through a vista of curved and pillared archways, a woman's voice came pealing out to them, the passionate climax of an Italian love song, the voice of a prima donna of world-wide fame. A storm of applause was echoed through the near rooms, a buzz of appreciative criticism followed. Drexley rose up from the seat where he had been sitting. "Thank you," he said. "I have learned what I wanted to know. I will go now. Good evening." She stood by his side--as tall as he--and looked at him curiously. It was as though she were seeking to discover from his face how much his opinion of her had altered. But if so, she was disappointed. His face was inscrutable. "You are angry with me?" "I have no right to be that." "Annoyed?" "Not with you."