"Quite apart from such matters--and you are perfectly correct in supposing that there must be lots of professed novelists who would most gladly assist you with them--quite apart from such matters, your novel, if you will allow me to say a rude thing, is utterly impossible. You are perpetually taking all sorts of knowledge for granted in your reader. Your characters don't sufficiently explain themselves; you write as if your reader had witnessed the whole thing and merely required reminding. I almost doubt whether you have fully realized for yourself a great part of the situation; one would think you were repeating things from hearsay, without quite understanding them." Marion felt a twinge of conscience: that wasn't the impression left by the novel, but the impression due to the discrepancy between the novel and its author. That hateful habit of studying people, of turning them round, prodding and cutting them to see what was inside, why couldn't he leave it behind for awhile? Had he not come to Venice with the avowed intention of suspending all such studies? Lady Tal laughed. The laugh was a little harsh. "You say that because of the modelling of my face--I know all about modelling of faces, and facial angles, and cheek-bones, and eye cavities: I once learned to draw--people always judge of me by the modelling of my face. Perhaps they are right, perhaps they are wrong. I daresay I _have_ taken too much for granted. One ought never to take anything for granted, in the way of human insight, ought one? Anyhow, perhaps you will show me when I have gone wrong, will you?" "It will require a good deal of patience----" began Marion. "On your part, of course. But then it all turns to profit with you novelists; and it's men's business to be patient, just because they never are." "I meant on your part, Lady Tal. I question whether you have any notion of what it means to recast a novel--to alter it throughout, perhaps not only once, but twice, or three times." "Make me a note of the main wrongness, and send me the MS., will you? I'll set about altering it at once, you'll see. I'm a great deal more patient than you imagine, Mr. Marion, when I want a thing--and I do want this--I want to write novels. I want the occupation, the interest, the excitement. Perhaps some day I shall want the money too. One makes pots of money in your business, doesn't one?" Lady Atalanta laughed. She threw her cigarette into the canal, and with a crackle and a rustle of her light dress, straightened her huge person, and after looking for a moment into the blue darkness full of dim houses and irregularly scattered lights, she swept back into the hum of voices and shimmer of white dresses of Miss Vanderwerf's big drawing-room. Jervase Marion remained leaning on the balcony, listening to the plash of oar and the bursts of hoarse voices and shrill fiddles from the distant music boats. V.