and rejoicing; and already there had been hints of this in the mind
of Thyrsis. The great secret that he was cherishing--what would be
the world's reception of it? And now suddenly a wild idea came to
him. He had heard somewhere that it is the women who read fiction.
And was not Corydon a perfect specimen of the average middle-class
young lady, and therefore of that mysterious potentiality, "the
public", to which he must appeal? Why not see what she would think
of it?

He took the plunge. "Would you like me to read it to you?" he asked.

"Why, certainly," she replied, and then added, gently, "If it
wouldn't be a desecration."

"Oh, no," said Thyrsis. "You see, when it's been printed, all sorts
of people will read it."

So he went back to the house and brought the precious manuscript;
and he placed Corydon in the seat of inspiration, and sat beside her
and read.

In many ways this was a revolutionary romance. Thyrsis had not spent
any of his time delving into other people's books for "local color";
he was not relying for his effects upon gabardines and hauberks, and
a sprinkling of "Yea, sires," and "prithees." His castle was but the
vaguely outlined background of a stage upon which living hearts
wrought out their passions. One saw the banquet-hall, with its
tapestries and splendor, and the master of it, the man of force;
there were swift scenes that gave one a glimpse of the age-long
state of things--