He looked at her quickly, hardly sure of her meaning. Then he smiled.
"I am. Almost too much so, perhaps."
"But why? I think I could love the man who did that story."
An expression half quizzical, half gratified, flitted across Frank's features.
"And if it were written by a woman?" he said.
Constance did not reply, and the tender look in her face grew a little cold. A tiny bit of something which she did not recognize suddenly germinated in her heart. It was hardly envy—she would have scorned to call it jealousy. She rose—rather hastily, it seemed.
"Which perhaps accounts for your having read it so well," she said. "I did not realize, and—I suppose such a story might be written by almost any woman except myself."
Frank caught up the manuscript and poised it like a missile.
"Another word and it goes over the cliff," he threatened.
She caught back his arm, laughing naturally enough.