“You told me you had read this book, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I’ve read it.”
“What do you think of it?” he asked her, curiously.
“I adore it!” she replied.
He sat down beside her, gravely.
“It’s a strange thing, but the book grows on you. When I first read it, I thought it was a clever little trifle. But as I work with it, I have come to see that it is remarkable in its human quality. You feel the charm of the author all through it.”
“Do you?” eagerly.
“Didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. I loved the girl. She seemed very true to me.”
“I’ve never known any girls except you, and I don’t know you very well, but there are spots where you and the other Francesca are strikingly alike. I suppose it is not you, but feminine. I mix them up.”
“If we are to make a play of it, I am glad we both love it.”
“I find myself intensely interested in the mysterious woman who wrote it. To me there is no hint
