"We must part," she said, throwing her cigarette into the fire and walking
to the window; "I can't help it. I suppose I'm not good enough for you. You
must be free to marry Her when we find Her. I too," she sighed, "must be
free...."

"I now call upon myself to speak," I remarked, rising hurriedly. "Janet," I
continued, arriving at her side, "keep perfectly still and do not attempt
to breathe, because you will not be able to, and look as pleasant as you
can while I tell you truthfully what I think you are really like."

(I have been compelled to delete this passage on the ground that even if
people believed me it would only attract more callers.)

"All right," she continued, unruffling her hair; "but if I do you must
promise to leave off writing stories about me. Will you?"

"But, darling," I objected, "consider the bread-and-jam."

She was silent.

"Well, then," she said at last, "you must only write careful ones that I
can live up to."

"I'll try," I agreed remorsefully; "I'll go and do one now--all about this.
And you can censor it." I left the room jauntily.

Janet's voice, suddenly repentant, followed me.

"No," she called, "that won't do either. Because if it's a true one you
won't sell it."