The blue eyes shone through a bright mist as she answered the man's kindly
words. "You _are_ good, Mr. Lagrange. And all the time it was really _you_
of whom I was so afraid."

"Why me, more than my friend?" he asked, regarding her thoughtfully.

She colored a little under his searching gaze, but answered with that
childlike frankness that was so much a part of her winsome charm, "Why,
because your friend is an _artist_--I thought _he_ would be sure to
understand. I knew, of course, that you were the famous author; everybody
talks about your living here." She seemed to think that her words
explained.

"You mean that you were afraid of me because I am famous?" he asked
doubtfully.

"Oh no," she answered, "not because you are famous. I mean--I was not
afraid of your _fame_," she smiled.

"And now," said the novelist decisively, "you must tell me at once--do you
read my books?" He waited, as though much depended upon her answer.

The blue eyes were gazing at him with that wide, unafraid look as she
answered sadly, "No, sir. I have tried, but I can't. They spoil my music.
They hurt me, somehow, all over."

Conrad Lagrange received her words with mingled emotions--with pleased
delight at her ingenuous frankness; with bitter shame, sorrow, and
humiliation and, at the last, with genuine gladness and relief. "I knew
it"--he said triumphantly--"I knew it. It was because of my books that you