eve it is a general name for insects," Chesney said humbly. "Mrs.
Kent is a good sort, but a little conceited. Apt to fancy herself, you
know. Young widows of her type often do. She is tired of the artificial
existence of town, and goes off into the country, where she leads the
simple life. She meets a young man there, who, well, 'pon my word, is
rather like me. He was a bit of an ass----"

"He was nothing of the kind," Ethel cried indignantly. "He was splendid.
And he made that woman love him, he made her acknowledge that she had
met her match at last. And he turned out to be one of the most
brilliant----"

"My dear Miss Ethel, after all it was only a play. You remind me of
'Mrs. Kent,' and you say that I remind you of the hero of the play
who----"

"I didn't, Mr. Chesney. I said nothing of the kind. It is unfair of
you----"

"When the likeness is plain enough," Chesney said stubbornly. "You are
'Mrs. Kent,' and I am the hero of the comedy. Do you think that there is
any possibility that some day you and--of course not yet, but----"

Miss Marsh sat there questioning the evidence of her coral-pink ears.
She knew that she was furiously angry because she felt so cool about it.
She knew that the more furious one was, the more calm and self-contained
the senses become. The man meant nothing, either--one could see that by
the respectful expression of his eye. Still----

"You are quite wrong," Ethel said. "You have altogether misunderstood
the _motif_ of the play. I presume you know what a _motif_ is?"

"I think so," Chesney said humbly. "It is a word they apply in music
when you don't happen to understand what the composer--especially the
modern composer--is driving at."

"Oh, let it pass," Ethel said hopelessly. "You have misunderstood the
gist of the play, then! 'Walter Severn' in the comedy is a man of
singular points. He is a great author. Instead of being that woman's
plaything, he is her merciless analyst. The great scene in the play
comes when she finds this out. Now, you do not for a moment presume to
put yourself on a level with 'Walter Severn,' do you?"

Chesney was bound to admit the height of his audacity. His eyes were
fixed humbly on his Minerva; he was Telemachus seated at the feet of the
goddess. And even yet he did not seem really cognizant of the enormity
of his offence. He saw the sunlight on that sweetly serious face, he saw
the beams playing with the golden meshes of her hair. No doubt he was