"You don't like it--what's the use?"

"Don't be silly. I am deeply interested. Go on!"

He began a little hopelessly, feeling the atmosphere, by that subtle
sense that makes the creative artist like a sensitive plant where his
work is at stake. The third act failed to ascend, or to resolve the
situation. He merely carried it as far as it interested him, and then
dropped it. As he closed the manuscript Bambi reached out her hand
for it.

"Give it to me, in my hand!" she ordered. He obeyed, questioningly.

"I feel as if it was such a big thing, mangled and bleeding. I want to
hold it and help it."

"Mangled?"

"Yes. Don't you feel it? She isn't a woman! She's a monster. You don't
believe her. You won't believe her, because you hate her."

"But she's true. She lives to-day. She is the woman of now," he
repeated.

"No, no, no! Woman may approximate this, but she doesn't reason it out.
Let her be fine, and big, and righteously ambitious. Make us sympathize
with her."

"But I am preaching against her."