undoubtedly, she has done a few fine things," he admitted with
professional caution.

"But if, as you say, her emotional self does not go into her poems, what
becomes of it?" enquired Trent, with a curiosity too impersonal to be
vulgar. "For she, finely tempered as she is, suggests nothing so much as
a beautiful golden flame."

Adams started, and flashed upon the other a glance as incisive as a
search-light.

"Then you, too, recognise her beauty?" he asked in a tone which had a
kindly jealousy.

"Am I a fool?" protested Trent, laughing.

'You heard Kemper?"

"I heard him proclaim himself an ass. Well, let him, let him. Would you
hand out one of your precious first editions to the crowd?"

"You're right, you're right," assented Adams, and followed his remark
with a sudden change of subject. "I am interested, Mr. Trent, in what
you yourself have come to do."

"I--Oh, I have done nothing," declared Trent.

"In your aims, then, let us say, I understand that you intend to try the
drama?"