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And all the while Brown talked on.

Lying there in her chair she listened to him while the thoughts in her eased mind moved in delicate accompaniment.

Somehow she understood that never in her life had she been so happy – with this boy babbling beside her, and her own thoughts responding almost tenderly to his youth, his inconsistencies, to the arrogance typical of his sex. He was so wrong! – so far from the track, so utterly astray, so pitiably confident! Who but she should know, who had worked and studied and failed and searched, always writing, however – which is the only way in the world to learn how to write – or to learn that there is no use in writing.

Her hand lay along the flat arm of her rocking-chair; and once, when he had earnestly sustained a perfectly untenable theory concerning success in literature, unconsciously she laid her fresh, smooth hand on his arm in impulsive protest.

"No," she said, "don't think that way. You are quite wrong. That is the road to failure!"

It was her first expression of disagreement, and he looked at her amazed.

"I am afraid you think I don't know anything about real literature and realism," she said, "but I do know a little."

"Every man must work out his salvation in his own way," he insisted, still surprised at her dissent.

"Yes, but one should be equipped by long practice in the art before definitely choosing one's final course."

"I am practiced."

"I don't mean theoretically," she murmured.

He laughed: "Oh, you mean mere writing," he said, gaily confident. "That, according to my theory, is not necessary to real experience. Literature is something loftier."

In her feminine heart every instinct of womanhood was aroused – pity for the youth of him, sympathy for his obtuseness, solicitude for his obstinacy, tenderness for the fascinating combination of boy and man, which might call itself by any name it chose – even "author" – and go blundering along without a helping hand amid shrugs and smiles to a goal marked "Failure."

"I wonder," she said almost timidly, "whether you could ever listen to me."

"Always," he said, bending nearer to see her expression. Which having seen, he perhaps forgot to note in his little booklet, for he continued to look at her.

"I haven't very much to say," she said. "Only – to learn any art or trade or profession it is necessary to work at it unremittingly. But to discuss it never helped anybody."

"My dear child," he said, "I know that what you say was the old idea. But," he shrugged, "I do not agree with it."

"I am so sorry," she said.

"Sorry? Why are you sorry?"

"I don't know… Perhaps because I like you."

It was not very much to say – not a very significant declaration; but the simplicity and sweetness of it – her voice – the head bent a little in the starlight – all fixed Brown's attention. He sat very still there in the luminous dusk of the white veranda; the dew dripped steadily like rain; the lagoon glittered.

Then, subtly, taking Brown unawares, his most treacherous enemy crept upon him with a stealth incredible, and, before Brown knew it, was in full possession of his brain. The enemy was Imagination.

Minute after minute slipped away in the scented dusk, and found Brown's position unchanged, where he lay in his chair looking at her.

The girl also was very silent.

With what wonderful attributes his enemy, Imagination, was busily endowing the girl beside him in the starlight, there is no knowing. His muse was Thalomene, slim daughter of Zeus; and whether she was really still on Olympus or here beside him he scarcely knew, so perfectly did this young girl inspire him, so exquisitely did she fill the bill.

"It is odd," he said, after a long while, "that merely a few hours with you should inspire me more than I have ever been inspired in all my life."

"That," she said unsteadily, "is your imagination."

At the hateful word, imagination, Brown seemed to awake from the spell. Then he sat up straight, rather abruptly.

"The thing to do," he said, still confused by his awakening, "is to consider you impersonally and make notes of everything." And he fumbled for pencil and note-book, and, rising, stepped across to the front door, where a light was burning.

Standing under it he resolutely composed his thoughts; but to save his life he could remember nothing of which to make a memorandum.

This worried him, and finally alarmed him. And so long did he stand there, note-book open, pencil poised, and a sickly expression of dismay imprinted upon his otherwise agreeable features, that the girl rose at last from her chair, glanced in through the door at him, and then came forward.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"The matter is," said Brown, "that I don't seem to have anything to write about."

"You are tired," she said. "I think we both are a little tired."

"I am not. Anyway, I have something to write about now. Wait a moment till I make a note of how you walk – the easy, graceful, flowing motion, so exquisitely light and – "

"But I don't walk like that!" she said, laughing.

" – Graciously as a youthful goddess," muttered Brown, scribbling away busily in his note-book. "Tell me; what motive had you just now in rising and coming to ask me what was the matter – with such a sweetly apprehensive expression in your eyes?"

"My – my motive?" she repeated, astonished.

"Yes. You had one, hadn't you?"

"Why – I don't know. You looked worried; so I came."

"The motive," said Brown, "was feminine solicitude – an emotion natural to nice women. Thank you." And he made a note of it.

"But motives and emotions are different things," she said timidly. "I had no motive for coming to ask you why you seemed troubled."

"Wasn't your motive to learn why?"

"Y-yes, I suppose so."

He laid his head on one side and inspected her critically.

"And if anything had been amiss with me you would have been sorry, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why? Because – one is sorry when a friend – when anyone – "

"I am your friend," he said. "So why not say it?"