"Never mind the lamp," cried Lucy Melville. The faithful Mortimer left the room, and—officially—heard no more.
"Why, Lucy!" cried Severne.
In the dim light he could see that her cheeks were glowing with excitement. She crossed the room swiftly, and put her hands on his shoulders. "Bob," she said, gravely, with tears in her eyes, "I know I ought not to be here, but I just couldn't help it! After you were so noble! And it won't matter, for I'm going in just a minute."
Severne cast his mind back in review of his noble acts. "What is it, Lucy?" he inquired.
"As if you could ask!" she cried. "I never knew of a man's doing so tactful and graceful and beautiful a thing in my life! And I don't care a bit, and I believe you were right, after all."
"Right about what?" he begged, getting more and more bewildered.
"About the realism, of course."
She looked up at him again, pointing out her chin in the most adorable fashion. Even serious-minded men have moments of lucidity. Severne had one now.
"Oh, no, you mustn't, Bob—dear!" she cried, blushing.
"But really, Bob," she went on, after a moment, "even if realism is all right, you must admit that your last story is the best thing you ever wrote."