"Do you mean a cigarette?"
"Dear no! a wife."
"No; and yet I would give up my cigarette for one."
"You would give up a good deal more than that," said St. George. "However, you would get a great deal in return. There is a great deal to be said for wives," he added, folding his arms and crossing his outstretched legs. He declined tobacco altogether and sat there without returning fire. Paul Overt stopped smoking, touched by his courtesy; and after all they were out of the fumes, their sofa was in a far-away corner. It would have been a mistake, St. George went on, a great mistake for them to have separated without a little chat; "for I know all about you," he said, "I know you're very remarkable. You've written a very distinguished book."
"And how do you know it?" Overt asked.
"Why, my dear fellow, it's in the air. it's in the papers, it's everywhere," St. George replied, with the immediate familiarity of a confrère—a tone that seemed to his companion the very rustle of the laurel. "You're on all men's lips and, what's better, you're on all women's. And I've just been reading your book."
"Just? You hadn't read it this afternoon," said Overt.
"How do you know that?"
"You know how I know it," the young man answered, laughing.
"I suppose Miss Fancourt told you."
"No, indeed; she led me rather to suppose that you had."
"Yes; that's much more what she would do. Doesn't she shed a rosy glow over life? But you didn't believe her?" asked St. George.
"No, not when you came to us there."
