? I'm sorry; there's nothing so tedious to other people. Why do
you think I'm more serious?'

'I think you miss Aylmer.'

'Yes, I do. He gave a sort of meaning to everything. He's always
interesting. And there's something about him--I don't know what it is.
Oh, don't be frightened, Vincy, I'm not going to use the word
personality. Isn't that one of the words that ought to be forbidden
altogether? In all novels and newspapers that poor, tired word is
always cropping up.'

'Yes, that and magnetism, and temperament, and technique. Let's cut out
technique altogether. Don't let there be any, that's the best way; then
no-one can say anything about it. I'm fed up with it. Aren't you?'

'Oh, I don't agree with you at all. I think there ought to be any
amount of technique, and personality, and magnetism, and temperament. I
don't mind _how_ much technique there is, as long as nobody talks about
it. But neither of these expressions is quite so bad as that dreadful
thing you always find in American books, and that lots of people have
caught up--especially palmists and manicures--mentality.'

'Yes, mentality's very depressing,' said Vincy. 'I could get along
nicely without it, I think.... I had a long letter from Aylmer today.
He seemed unhappy.'

'I had a few lines yesterday,' said Edith. 'He said he was having a
very good time. What did he say to you?'

'Oh, he wrote, frankly to _me_.'

'Bored, is he?'

'Miserable; enamoured of sorrow; got the hump; frightfully off colour;
wants to come back to London. He misses the Mitchells. I suppose it's
the Mitchells.'

Edith smiled and looked pleased. 'He asked me not to come here much.'

'Ah! But he wouldn't want you to go anywhere. That is so like Aylmer.
He's not jealous; of course. How could he be? It's only a little
exclusiveness.... And how delightfully rare that is, Edith dear. I
admire him for it. Most people now seem to treasure anything they value
in proportion to the extent that it's followed about and surrounded by
the vulgar public. I sympathise with that feeling of wishing to
keep--anything of that sort--to oneself.'

'You are more secretive than jealous, yourself. But I have very much
the same feeling,' Edith said. 'Many women I know think the ideal of
happiness is to be in love with a great man, or to be the wife of a
great public success; to share his triumph! They forget you share the
man as well!'

'I suppose the idea is that, after the publicity and the a