“You’re reward!” Elfrida repeated.  Her smiling comprehension insisted that it did not understand.

“The pleasure of saying good-morning to you.  But that is an inanity, Miss Bell, and unworthy of me.  I should have left you to divine it.”

“How could I divine an inanity in connection with you?” she answered, and her eyes underlined her words.  When he returned, “Oh, you always parry!” she felt a little thrill of pleasure with herself.  “How did it go—­last night?” she asked.

“Altogether lovely.  Standing room only, and the boxes taken for a week.  I find myself quite adorable in my little part now.  I feel it, you know.  I am James Jones, a solicitor’s clerk, to my fingers’ ends.  My nature changes, my environment changes, the instant I go on.  But a little thing upsets me.  Last night I had to smoke a cigar—­the swell of the piece gives me a cigar—­and he gave me a poor one.  It wasn’t in tone—­the unities required that he should give me a good cigar.  See?  I felt quite confused for the moment.”

Elfrida’s eyes had strayed to the corner of her letter.  “If you want to read that,” continued Mr. Ticke, “I know you won’t mind me.”

“Thanks,” said Elfrida calmly.  “I’ve read it already.  It’s a rejected article.”

“My play came back again yesterday for the thirteenth time.  The fellow didn’t even look at it.  I know, because I stuck the second and third pages together as if by accident, and when it came back they were still stuck.  And yet these men pretend to be on the lookout for original work!  It’s a thrice beastly world, Miss Bell.”

Elfrida widened her eyes again and smiled with a vague impersonal winningness.  “I suppose one ought not to care,” said she, “but there is the vulgar necessity of living.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Ticke; and then sardonically:  “Waterloo Bridge at ebb tide is such a nasty alternative.  I could never get over the idea of the drainage.”

“Oh, I know a better way than that.”  She chose her words deliberately.  “A much better way.  I keep it here,” holding up the bent little finger of her left hand.  It had a clumsy silver ring on it, square and thick in the middle, bearing deep-cut Sanskrit letters.  “It is a dear little alternative,” she went on, “like a bit of brown sugar.  Rather a nice taste, I believe,—­and no pain.  When I am quite tired of it all I shall use this, I think.  My idea is that it’s weak to wait until you can’t help it.  Besides, I could never bear to become—­less attractive than I am now.”

“Poison!” said Mr. Golightly Ticke, with an involuntarily horrified face.  Elfrida’s hand was hanging over the edge of the table, and he made as if he would examine the ring without the formality of asking leave.

She drew her fingers away instantly.  “In the vernacular,” she answered coolly.  “You may not touch it.”

“I beg your pardon.  But how awfully chic!”