Tuft Hunters; The Advanced American Woman as He Sees
Her; Aggressive, Superficial, and Insincere." The entire interview was
nothing more nor less than a satiric characterization of Flavia, aquiver
with irritation and vitriolic malice. No one could mistake it; it was
done with all his deftness of portraiture. Imogen had not finished the
article when she heard a footstep, and clutching the paper she started
precipitately toward the stairway as Arthur entered. He put out his
hand, looking critically at her distressed face.

"Wait a moment, Miss Willard," he said peremptorily, "I want to see
whether we can find what it was that so interested our friends this
morning. Give me the paper, please."

Imogen grew quite white as he opened the journal. She reached forward
and crumpled it with her hands. "Please don't, please don't," she
pleaded; "it's something I don't want you to see. Oh, why will you? it's
just something low and despicable that you can't notice."

Arthur had gently loosed her hands, and he pointed her to a chair. He
lit a cigar and read the article through without comment. When he had
finished it he walked to the fireplace, struck a match, and tossed the
flaming journal between the brass andirons.

"You are right," he remarked as he came back, dusting his hands with his
handkerchief. "It's quite impossible to comment. There are extremes of
blackguardism for which we have no name. The only thing necessary is to
see that Flavia gets no wind of this. This seems to be my cue to act;
poor girl."

Imogen looked at him tearfully; she could only murmur, "Oh, why did you
read it!"

Hamilton laughed spiritlessly. "Come, don't you worry about it. You
always took other people's troubles too seriously. When you were little
and all the world was gay and everybody happy, you must needs get the
Little Mermaid's troubles to grieve over. Come with me into the music
room. You remember the musical setting I once made you for the Lay of
the Jabberwock? I was trying it over the other night, long after you
were in bed, and I decided it was quite as fine as the Erl-King music.
How I wish I could give you some of the cake that Alice ate and make you
a little girl again. Then, when you had got through the glass door into
the little garden, you could call to me, perhaps, and tell me all the
fine things that were going on there. What a pity it is that you ever
grew up!" he added, laughing; and Imogen, too, was thinking just that.