her of us has changed much since last year. I only wish you
would!'

Margaret turned her head to look at him.

'So you think I am not changed!' she said, with a little pleased
surprise in her tone.

'Not a bit. If anything, you have grown younger in the last two
years.'

'Does that mean more youthful? More frisky? I hope not!'

'No, not at all. What I see is the natural effect of vast success on a
very, nice woman. Formerly, even after you had begun your career,
you had some doubts as to the ultimate result. The future made you
restless, and sometimes disturbed the peace of your face a little,
when you thought about it too much. That's all gone now, and you are
your real self, as nature meant you to be.'

'My real self? You mean, the professional singer!'

'No. A great artist, in the person of a thoroughly nice woman.'

Margaret had thought that blushing was a thing of the past with her,
but a soft colour rose in her cheeks now, from sheer pleasure at what
he had said.

'I hope you don't think it impertinent of me to tell you so,' said
Logotheti with a slight intonation of anxiety.

'Impertinent!' cried Margaret. 'It's the nicest thing any one has said
to me for months, and thank goodness I'm not above being pleased.'

Nor was Logotheti above using any art that could please her. His
instinct about women, finding no scruples in the way, had led him into
present favour by the shortest road. It is one thing to say brutally
that all women like flattery; it is quite another to foresee just what
form of flattery they will like. People who do not know professional
artistic life from the inner side are much too ready to cry out that
first-class professionals will swallow any amount of undiscriminating
praise. The ability to judge their own work is one of the gifts which
place them above the second class.

'I said what I thought,' observed Logotheti with a sudden air of
conscientious reserve. 'For once in our acquaintance, I was not
thinking of pleasing you. And then I was afraid that I had displeased
you, as I so often have.'

The last words were spoken with a regret that was real.

'I have forgiven you,' said Margaret quietly; 'with conditions!' she
added, as an afterthought, and smiling.

'Oh, I know--I'll never do it again.'

'That's what a runaway horse seems to say when he walks quietly home,
with his head down and his ears limp, after nearly breaking one's
neck!'

'I was a born runaway,' said Logoth