He was taken aback. "I!" said he. "Why it's by—" he showed her the title-page. "By A. Gage," he read.
"Yes," said she, "Go on," and he went on, 'Illustrated by A. N. Other.'"
"It's a splendid novel," she said seriously. "Real work—great work. I always knew you'd do it, Allen. I'm so proud of you!" And she held out her hand in the sincere intelligent appreciation of a fellow craftsman.
He took it, still bewildered.
"Thank you," he said. "I value your opinion—honestly I do! And—with a sudden sweep of recognition. "And yours is great work! Superb! Why you've put more into that story than I knew was there! You make the thing live and breathe! You've put a shadow of remorse in that lonely ruffian there that I was too proud to admit! And you've shown the—unconvincingness of that Other Girl; marvellously. But see here—no more fooling!"
He took her face between his hands, hands that quivered strongly, and forced her to look at him. "Tell me about that last picture! Is it—true?"
Her eyes met his, with the look he longed for. "It is true," she said.
*
After some time, really it was a long time, but they had not noticed it, he suddenly burst forth. "But how did you know?"
She lifted a flushed and smiling face: and pointed to the title page again.