"I think I know—but I'm afraid you'll be angry."
"No, I shan't. Come along—out with it!"
"Well—I told him once—that first day I dined with him—that I should love you two to meet. I said I'd love to hear you argue—"
"Oh, God!" exclaimed Janet. She cast her eyes up to the ceiling. "That did it! What did he say?"
"He said he could love a woman, but he couldn't argue with her."
"Yes—of course he did. A woman has to be confoundedly pretty before a man's going to let her have a point of view. Even then, if she isn't fairly cute, it's his own he gives her. Then I suppose when you came to live here, he saw my photograph?"
"I suppose he—yes, I think he did. I showed it to him; or he asked who it was."
Janet broke out into a peal of harsh—strident laughter.
"It's a wonder he risks your bringing me as near as the next floor," she had said. "Lord! A woman with a face like mine, who argues! God help us!"
But once she had understood that point, Janet had never alluded to it again; had made no effort to catch a glimpse of the man who so filled Sally's life. So much, in fact, had she endeavoured to avoid their contact that, on one occasion, when she and Sally had been climbing up to the second floor, and the door of his room was opened, through which his voice had sounded, calling to Sally, she had run hurriedly up the stairs out of sight, her heart thumping with excitement when he had shouted out—