He had a great success. Woman, although she knows it perfectly well, loves to be told what she wants and the way to get it: she will never follow the way, of course, having a tortuous, thorny, and enticing way of her own; but that doesn’t matter. The principle, the end, that is the thing: it justifies any amazing means. He sat down amid enthusiastic applause. Flushed, he sought Olivia’s distant gaze and smiled. Then she felt, thrillingly, that he had been speaking for her, for her alone, and her eyes brightened and flashed him a proud message. She met him a while later in the thronged drawing-room of the club, rather a shy and embarrassed young man, heading a distinct course toward her through a swarm of kind yet predatory ladies. She admired the simple craftsmanship of his approach. “How are you going to get home?” he asked. The adorable carelessness of twenty shrugged its shoulders. “I don’t know. The Lord will provide.” “If you can’t find a taxi, will you walk?” The question implied a hope, so obvious that she laughed gaily. “There are buses also and tubes.” “In which you can’t travel alone at this time of night.” She scoffed: “Oh, can’t I?” But his manifest fear that she should encounter satyrs in train or omnibus pleased her greatly. “Father’s dining at his club close by and is calling for me. He will see that you get home safely,” said Janet Philimore. “It’s miles out of your way, dear,” said Olivia. “I’ll put myself in the hands of Mr. Triona.” So, taxis being unfindable, they walked together through the warm London night to Victoria Street. It was then that he spoke of his work, the novel just completed. Of all opinions on earth, hers was the one he most valued. If only he could read it to her and have the priceless benefit of her judgment. Secretly flattered, she modestly depreciated, however, her critical powers. He persisted, attributing to her unsuspected qualities of artistic perception. At last, not reluctantly, she yielded. He could begin the next evening. The reading took some days. Olivia, new to creative work, marvelled exceedingly at the magic of the artist’s invention. The personages of the drama, imaginary he said, lived as real beings. She regarded their creation as uncanny. “But how do you know she felt like that?” He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “I can’t conceive her feeling otherwise.”