"To the novel," she cried. "May it be as successful in literature as
your other work has been in journalism! And Douglas, of course you've
dedicated it to me."

"I haven't imposed a dedication upon any one," he answered. "Aren't
they out of date?"

She shrugged her shoulders. Her elbows were both on the table, and she
leaned across towards him.

"Tell me about your story," she begged. "There is fruit coming, and
coffee. Let me fill your glass and you shall tell me of what things you
have written, evil or good, the things which are, or the things which
should be."

She raised the jug and the wine fell in a Little yellow shower into his
foaming glass. He raised it to his lips thoughtfully.

"It is wonderful," he said, "that you should be so interested."

"In the man or his story?"

"In either," he answered. "As a story-writer I am altogether unproven.
My novel may prove an utter failure."

She shook her head.

"You are not of the race of men who fail, my dear Douglas," she said.
"I think that that is why I like you.',