my views, can I? My experiences were made for me! I became
the creature of circumstances. No one is morally responsible for their
opinions."

"There are things," he said, "which find their way into our thoughts
and consciousness, but of which it would be considered flagrantly bad
taste to speak. And there are things in the world which exist, which
have existed from time immemorial, the evil legacy of countless
generations, of which it seems to me to be equally bad taste to write.
Art has a limitless choice of subjects. I would not have you sully
your fine gifts by writing of anything save of the beautiful."

"This is rank hedonism," she laughed. "It is a survival of your
academic days."

"Some day," he answered, "we will talk more fully of this. It is a
little early for us to discuss a subject upon which we hold such
opposite views."

"You are afraid that we might quarrel!"

He shook his head.

"No, not that! Only as I am something of an idealist, and you, I
suppose, have placed yourself amongst the ranks of the realists, we
should scarcely meet upon a common basis. But will you forgive me if I
say so--I am very sure that some day you will be a deserter?"

"And why?"

[Illustration: "Friends," she repeated, with a certain wistfulness in
her tone]

"I do not know anything of your history," he continued gently, "nor am
I asking for your confidence. Only in your story there was a personal
note, which seemed to me to somehow explain the bitterness and
directness with which you wrote--of certain subjects. I think that you
yourself have had trouble--or perhaps a dear friend has suffered,
and her grief has become yours. There was a little poison in your pen,
I think. Never mind! We shall be friends, and I shall watch it pass
away!"

"Friends," she repeated with a certain wistfulness in her tone. "But
have you forgotten--what you came for?"

"I do not think," he said slowly, "that it is of much consequence."

"But it is," she insisted. "You asked me distinctly where I wished to
be driven to from the theatre, and I told you--home! All the time I
knew that I was going to have supper with Mr. Thorndyke at the Milan!
Morally I lied to you!"

"Why?" he asked.

"I cannot tell you," she answered; "it was an impulse. I thought
nothing of accepting the man's invitation. You know him, I daresay. He
is a millionaire, and it is his money which supports the theatre. He
has asked me several times, and although personally