“I mean your ‘Note on three pictures in last year’s Salon,’ with the sonnets, and the fragment from your unfinished drama.  Is it finished, may I ask?”

“It is not finished.  I shall never finish it now.”

“I will tell you—­between ourselves—­that I heard one of the foremost critics of the age say, in the presence of a great poet (whom we both know), that it was such another fragment as the Venus of Milo, ’whose lost arms,’ said he, ’we should fear to see, lest they should be unworthy of her.’  ‘You are right,’ said the poet:  ’I, for one, should shudder to see the fragment completed.’  That is a positive fact.  But look at some of the sonnets!  Burgraves says that his collection of English sonnets is incomplete because it does not contain your ‘Clytemnestra,’ which he had not seen when his book went to press.  You stand in the very forefront of literature—­far higher than I, who am—­dont tell anybody—­five years older than you.”

“You are very good.  I do not value any distinction of the sort.  I write sometimes because, I suppose, the things that are in me must come out, whether I will or not.  Let us talk of something else.  You are quite well I hope?”

“Very far from it.  I am never well; but since I never have a moment’s rest from work, I must bear with it.  People expect me to think, when I have hardly time to eat.”

“If you have no time to think, I envy you.  But I am truly sorry that your health remains so bad.”

“Thank you.  But what is the cause of all this gloomy cynicism, Mr. Douglas?  Why should you, who are young, distinguished, gifted, and already famous, envy me for having no leisure to think?”

“You exaggerate the sadness of my unfortunate insensibility to the admiration of the crowd,” said Douglas, coldly.  “I am, nevertheless, flattered by the interest you take in my affairs.”

“You need not be, Mr. Douglas,” said Mrs. Fairfax, earnestly, fearing that he would presently succeed in rebuffing her.  “I think you are much better off than you deserve.  You may despise your reputation as much as you like:  that only affects yourself.  But when a beautiful girl pays you the compliment of almost dying of love for you, I think you ought to buy a wedding-ring and jump for joy, instead of sulking in remote corners of the continent.”

“And pray, Mrs. Leith Fairfax, what lady has so honored me?”

“You must know, unless you are blind.”

“Pardon me.  I do not habitually imply what is not the case.  I beg you to believe that I do not know.”

“Not know!  What moles men are!  Poor Marian!”

“Oblige me by taking this seat,” said Douglas, sternly, pointing to one just vacated.  “I shall not detain you many minutes,” he added, sitting down beside her.  “May I understand that Miss Lind is the lady of whom you spoke just now?”

“Yes.  Remember that I am speaking to you as a friend, and that I trust to you not to mention the effort I am making to clear up the misunderstanding which causes her so much unhappiness.”