"She was splendid," replied Aldous, without a change in his quiet voice.
"She was splendid--but bad. I racked myself to find a soul for her, and I
failed. And yet she was splendid. It was my crime--not hers--that she
lacked a soul. She would have been my ideal, but I spoiled her. And by
spoiling her I sold half a million copies of the book. I did not do it
purposely. I would have given her a soul if I could have found one. She
went her way."

"And you compare me to--_her?_"

"Yes," said Aldous deliberately. "You are that Joanne. But you possess what
I could not give to her. Joanne of 'Fair Play' was splendid without a soul.
You have what she lacked. You may not understand, but you have come to
perfect what I only partly created."

The colour had slowly ebbed from Joanne's face. There was a mysterious
darkness in her eyes.

"If you were not John Aldous I would--strike you," she said. "As it
is--yes--I want you as a friend."

She held out her hand. For a moment he felt its warmth again in his own.
He bowed over it. Her eyes rested steadily on his blond head, and again she
noted the sprinkle of premature gray in his hair. For a second time she
felt almost overwhelmingly the mysterious strength of this man. Perhaps
each took three breaths before John Aldous raised his head. In that time
something wonderful and complete passed between them. Neither could have
told the other what it was. When their eyes met again, it was in their
faces.