e what can be done."

"But it's part of my 'whimsical wit' to call you Willyum," she said grimly.
"I understand that I am like that. People realise this when they read your
articles, and immediately call to see if I'm true. I've read through nearly
all your stories to-day, in between the visitors, and--and--"

I gripped her hand in silence.

"I'm losing all my friends," she mourned, touched by my sympathy, "even
those who used to like me long ago. Girls who knew me at school say to
themselves, 'Fancy poor old Janet being like that all the time, and we
never knew!' and they rush down to see me again. They sit hopefully round
me as long as they can bear it; then, after the breakdown, they go away
indignant and never think kindly of me again."

She gloomed.

"And all the cousins and nice young men who used to think I was quite jolly
have suddenly noticed how much jollier I might be if only I could say the
things they say you say I say...."

"Hush, hush," I whispered; "have an aspirin."

"But it's quite _true_," she cried hopelessly. "And She's just what I ought
to be. She says everything just in the right place. When I compare myself
with Her, I know I'm not a bit the kind of person you admire, and--and it's
no good pretending any longer. I'm not jealous, only--sort of misrubble."

She rose with a pale smile and, hushing my protestations, arrived at her
conclusion.

"We must part," she said, throwing her cigarette into the fire and walking
to the window; "I can't help it. I suppose I'm not good enough for you. You
must be free to marry Her when we find Her. I too," she sighed, "must be
free...."

"I now call upon myself to speak," I remarked, rising hurriedly. "Janet," I
continued, arriving at her side, "keep perfectly still and do not attempt
to breathe, because you will not be able to, and look as pleasant as you
can while I tell you truthfully what I think you are really like."

(I have been compelled to delete this passage on the ground that even if
people believed me it would only attract more callers.)

"All right," she continued, unruffling her hair; "but if I do you must
promise to leave off writing stories about me. Will you?"

"But, darling," I objected, "consider the bread-and-jam."

She was silent.

"Well, then," she said at last, "you must only write careful ones that I
can live up to."

"I'll try," I agreed remorsefully; "I'll go and do one now--all about this.
And you can censor it." I lef