assure you that I have cared deeply for the women to whom my love-poetry
was written. And you will not deny that it is genuine."

"God forbid! Only you have been using the wrong preposition. You should
have said that it was written at them."

Ernest stared at her in child-like wonder.

"By Jove! you are too devilishly clever!" he exclaimed.

After a little silence he said not without hesitation: "And do you apply
your theory to all artists, or only to us makers of rhyme?"

"To all," she replied.

He looked at her questioningly.

"Yes," she said, with a new sadness in her voice, "I, too, have paid the
price."

"You mean?"

"I loved."

"And art?"

"That was the sacrifice."

"Perhaps you have chosen the better part," Ernest said without
conviction.