lf, flushed and excited, in the little field beyond.

Who could he marry, possibly? The question lent quite a new thrill to
life. It was a big adventure, even if one never did it....

He hated clever women. He was sure of that. Hated them, at any rate,
as wives. Mrs. Kenneth Boyd was one, and when he dined with them, she
always waited till he had thrown out a theory, quite impromptu,
possibly exaggerated rather, about something, and then said, "Really,
Mr. Brett? But how unusual!" or something of the sort. No, he could
not bear that. He thought that type an insult to his sex. He liked a
woman to be rather silly--well, not that quite--no, but shallow. He
liked her to have not too many views herself: he hated suffragettes and
things, of course; but just to have the brains to understand one's own
ideas. That was where the girl Ruth had mentioned was so splendid.
She saw the fun of things; she even saw the fun of her name, Helena
Hallam; but also she could enter into the plot of a book directly you
had told it her, and be immensely interested in hearing about people
you met at the Authors' Club. She was almost too ignorant, of
course--knew nothing about life--but her naive remarks amused him: so
what did it matter?

That really was the sort of woman he would like to marry. Some one who
would be interested in his work but know she hadn't got the brain to
interfere; some one who'd look on his work-hours as sacred, because
given to a thing she couldn't do to save her very life.

Ruth was annoying about that, and silly. If he read her out a chapter,
she would usually say, "I think it's quite good, old boy; but I never
feel you're made for fiction. I suppose essays never sell, though, and
plays are quite impossible?" It was too stupid. She had said that
even about _Wandering Stars_, which had sold close upon five thousand
copies! Not--of course--that he valued his novels according to their
sales....

The girl in Devonshire had been so different. He smiled, recalling her
simplicity. She had thought him so clever to write, even before she
had seen a word of it! And when he read her out a chapter, she wanted
to know just how long it had taken him, asked to see how much he had
corrected, and clearly looked upon the whole thing as a miracle.

Thinking of her now he had a curiously vital image of her personality.
She was so fresh, so natural, so unspoilt, so splendidly a thing of
life. She had never been to