would have chosen, she found for reply: "I believe the Americans
walk very little."

"Yes, we always run," I laughingly allowed.

She looked at me seriously, yet with an absence in her pretty eyes.
"I suppose your distances are so great."

"Yes, but we break our marches! I can't tell you the pleasure to me
of finding myself here," I added. "I've the greatest admiration for
Mr. Ambient."

"He'll like that. He likes being admired."

"He must have a very happy life, then. He has many worshippers."

"Oh yes, I've seen some of them," she dropped, looking away, very far
from me, rather as if such a vision were before her at the moment.
It seemed to indicate, her tone, that the sight was scarcely
edifying, and I guessed her quickly enough to be in no great
intellectual sympathy with the author of "Beltraffio." I thought the
fact strange, but somehow, in the glow of my own enthusiasm, didn't
think it important it only made me wish rather to emphasise that
homage.

"For me, you know," I returned--doubtless with a due suffisance--
"he's quite the greatest of living writers."

"Of course I can't judge. Of course he's very clever," she said with
a patient cheer.