sheer waste of labour,--for everywhere this woman author was still looked upon as a creature of altogether finer clay than ordinary, and still her book was eagerly devoured and questioned and admired; and still it sold by thousands, despite a lack of all favourable criticism or prominent advertisement. No one guessed that I had written what I am now perfectly willing to admit was a brutally wanton misrepresentation of her work,--no one, except Rimânez. The magazine in which it appeared was a notable one, circulating in every club and library, and he, taking it up casually one afternoon, turned to that article at once. "You wrote this!" he said, fixing his eyes upon me,--"It must have been a great relief to your mind!" I said nothing. He read on in silence for a little; then laying down the magazine looked at me with a curiously scrutinizing expression. "There are some human beings so constituted," he said, "that if they had been with Noah in the ark according to the silly old legend, they would have shot the dove bearing the olive-leaf, directly it came in sight over the waste of waters. You are of that type Geoffrey." "I do not see the force of your comparison," I murmured. "Do you not? Why, what harm has this Mavis Clare done to you? Your positions are entirely opposed. You are a millionaire; she is a hard-working woman dependent on her literary success for a livelihood, and you, rolling in wealth do your best to deprive her of the means of existence. Does this redound to your credit? She has won her fame by her own brain and energy alone,--and even if you dislike her book need you abuse her personally as you have done in this article? You do not know her; you have never seen her, ..." "I hate women who write!" I said vehemently. "Why? Because they are able to exist independently? Would you have them all the slaves of man's lust or convenience? My dear Geoffrey, you are unreasonable. If you admit that you are jealous of this woman's celebrity and grudge it to her, then I can understand your spite, for jealousy is capable of murdering a fellow-creature with either the dagger or the pen." I was silent. "Is the book such wretched stuff as you make it out to be?" he asked presently. "I suppose some people might admire it,"--I said curtly, "I do not." This was a lie; and of course he knew it was a lie. The work of Mavis Clare had excited my most passionate envy,--while the very fact that Sibyl Elton had read her book before she had thought of looking at mine, had accentuated the bitterness of my feelings. "Well," said Rimânez at last, smiling as he finished reading my onslaught--"all I can say Geoffrey, is that this will not touch Mavis Clare in the least. You have overshot the mark, my friend! Her public will simply cry "what a shame!" and clamour for her work more than ever. And as for the woman herself,--she has a merry heart, and she will laugh at it. You must see her some day." "I don't want to see her," I said.