He smiled. He was not in the least offended. It was as if her perverse shafts never penetrated his superb solidity.
And yet he was not obtuse, not insensitive. He might fall, she judged, through pride, but not through vanity.
"I admit," said he, "that he is our greatest living novelist."
"Then," said she, "you are forgiven."
"And I may continue to adore your tenderness?"
"You may adore anything—after that admission."
He smiled again, like one satisfied, appeased.
"What," he said presently, "is Miss Lempriere's work like? Has she anything of your breadth, your solidity, your fire?"
"There's more fire in Nina Lempriere's little finger than in my whole body."
Brodrick took out his pocket-book and made a note of Nina.