that was soft as velvet underfoot. On the farther side of this, sheltered
among the trees, were two or three tents. The man led the way toward these.

"Now, I suppose I've spoiled it all," he went on, a touch of irony in his
voice. "It was really quite heroic of me to follow you into Bill's place,
don't you think? You probably want to tell me so, but don't quite dare.
And I should play up to my part, shouldn't I? But I cannot--not
satisfactorily. I'm really a bit disgusted with myself for having taken as
much interest in you as I have. I write books for a living. My name is John
Aldous."

With a little cry of amazement, his companion stopped. Without knowing it,
her hand had gripped his arm.

"You are John Aldous--who wrote 'Fair Play,' and 'Women!'" she gasped.

"Yes," he said, amusement in his face.

"I have read those books--and I have read your plays," she breathed, a
mysterious tremble in her voice. "You despise women!"

"Devoutly."

She drew a deep breath. Her hand dropped from his arm.

"This is very, very funny," she mused, gazing off to the sun-capped peaks
of the mountains. "You have flayed women alive. You have made them want to
mob you. And yet----"

"Millions of them read my books," he chuckled.