“Yes. So we'll go and dance, and I’ll pet her a bit, still impersonally, as if I were thinking of some one else. She'll naturally be intrigued and she’ll say, ‘What are you thinking of?’ and I’ll say, ‘Why do you want to know?’ She'll plead with me, perhaps dancing quite close to me, cajoling; but I’ll say, ‘I’d rather tell you what you are thinking of,’ and she will say ‘What?’ immediately, and I’ll say, ‘You are thinking of me.’ Now, what do you think of that? What will she say then?”
“Probably tell you you’ve got a swelled head.”
Mr. Talliaferro’s face fell. “Do you think she’ll say that?”
“Don’t know. You'll find out soon enough.”
“No,” Mr. Talliaferro said after a while, “I don’t believe she will. I rather fancied she’d think I knew a lot about women.” He mused deeply for a time. Then he burst out again: “If she does, I’ll say “Perhaps so. But I am tired of this place. Lets go.” She’ll not want to leave, but I’ll be firm. And then—” Mr. Talliaferro became smug, bursting with something he withheld. “No, no: I shan’t tell you—it’s too excruciatingly simple. Why some one else has not . . .” He sat gloating.
“Scared I’ll run out and use it myself before you have a chance?” Fairchild asked.
“No, really; not at all. I—” He considered a moment, then he leaned to the other. “It’s not that at all, really; I only feel that . . . Being the discoverer, that sort of thing, eh? I trust you, my dear fellow,” he added swiftly in a burst of confidence. “Merely my own scruples— You see?”
“Sure,” said Fairchild drily. “I understand.”
“You will have so many opportunities, while I. . .” Again that dark thing came up behind Mr. Talliaferro’s eyes and peered forth a moment. He drove it back. “And you really think it will work?”
