James lit a fresh cigarette in smiling silence. “He has met me once--twice--no, three times,” she meditated aloud. “But he knows what I'm like. He boasts of his divination and when one puts him to the test he repudiates.” “All I should have claimed is that I know I don't know what you are like.” “Which is something,” she conceded. “It's a good deal,” he claimed for himself. “It shows a beginning of understanding. And--given the opportunity--I hope to know more.” He questioned of her eyes how far he might go. “It's the incomprehensible that lures. It piques interest and lends magic. Behind those eyelids a little weary all the subtle hidden meaning of the ages shadows. The gods forbid that I should claim to hold the answer to the eternal mystery of woman.” “Dear me! I ask for a photograph and he gives me a poem,” she mocked, touching an electric button. “I try merely to interpret the poem.” She looked at him under lowered lids with a growing interest. Her experience had not warranted her in hoping that he would prove worth while. It would be clear gain if he were to disappoint her agreeably. “I think I have read somewhere that the function of present-day criticism is to befog the mind and blur the object criticised.” He considered an answer, but gave it up when a maid appeared with a tray, and after a minute of deft arrangement disappeared to return with the added paraphernalia that goes to the making and consuming of afternoon tea. James watched in a pleasant content the easy grace with which the flashing hands of his hostess manipulated the brew. Presently she flung open a wing of the elaborate cellaret that stood near and disclosed a gleaming array of cut-glass decanters. Her fingers hovered over them. “Cognac?” “Think I'll take my tea straight just as you make it.” “Most Western men don't care for afternoon tea. You should hear my father on the subject.” “I can imagine him.” He smiled. “But if he has tried it with you I should think he'd be converted.” She laughed at him in the slow tantalizing way that might mean anything or nothing. “I absolve you of the necessity of saying pretty things. Instead, you may continue that portrait you were drawing when the maid interrupted.” “It's a subject I can't do justice.” She laughed disdainfully. “I thought it was time for the flattery. As if I couldn't extort that from any man. It's the A B C of our education. But the truth about one's self--the unpalatable, bitter truth--there's a sting of unexpected pleasure in hearing that judicially.” “And do you get that pleasure often?” “Not often. Men are dreadful cowards, you know. My father is about the only man who dares tell it to me.”