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“Thanks,” I said, “for your kindness, but I fear it is undeserved. I seldom discuss myself even when with my friends.”

“I am your friend,” replied Miss Grief. Then, after a moment, she added slowly, “I have read every word you have written.”

I curled the edges of my book indifferently; I am not a fop, I hope, but–others have said the same.

“What is more, I know much of it by heart,” continued my visitor. “Wait: I will show you;” and then, without pause, she began to repeat something of mine word for word, just as I had written it. On she went, and I–listened. I intended interrupting her after a moment, but I did not, because she was reciting so well, and also because I felt a desire gaining upon me to see what she would make of a certain conversation which I knew was coming–a conversation between two of my characters which was, to say the least, sphinx-like, and somewhat incandescent as well. What won me a little, too, was the fact that the scene she was reciting (it was hardly more than that, though called a story) was secretly my favorite among all the sketches from my pen which a gracious public has received with favor. I never said so, but it was; and I had always felt a wondering annoyance that the aforesaid public, while kindly praising beyond their worth other attempts of mine, had never noticed the higher purpose of this little shaft, aimed not at the balconies and lighted windows of society, but straight up toward the distant stars. So she went on, and presently reached the conversation: my two people began to talk. She had raised her eyes now, and was looking at me soberly as she gave the words of the woman, quiet, gentle, cold, and the replies of the man, bitter, hot, and scathing. Her very voice changed, and took, though always sweetly, the different tones required, while no point of meaning, however small, no breath of delicate emphasis which I had meant, but which the dull types could not give, escaped an appreciative and full, almost overfull, recognition which startled me. For she had understood me–understood me almost better than I had understood myself. It seemed to me that while I had labored to interpret, partially, a psychological riddle, she, coming after, had comprehended its bearings better than I had, though confining herself strictly to my own words and emphasis. The scene ended (and it ended rather suddenly), she dropped her eyes, and moved her hand nervously to and fro over the box she held; her gloves were old and shabby, her hands small.

I was secretly much surprised by what I had heard, but my ill-humor was deep-seated that day, and I still felt sure, besides, that the box contained something which I was expected to buy.

“You recite remarkably well,” I said carelessly, “and I am much flattered also by your appreciation of my attempt. But it is not, I presume, to that alone that I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Yes,” she answered, still looking down, “it is, for if you had not written that scene I should not have sought you. Your other sketches are interiors–exquisitely painted and delicately finished, but of small scope. This is a sketch in a few bold, masterly lines–work of entirely different spirit and purpose.”

I was nettled by her insight. “You have bestowed so much of your kind attention upon me that I feel your debtor,” I said, conventionally. “It may be that there is something I can do for you–connected, possibly, with that little box?”

It was impertinent, but it was true; for she answered, “Yes.”

I smiled, but her eyes were cast down and she did not see the smile.

“What I have to show you is a manuscript,” she said after a pause which I did not break; “it is a drama. I thought that perhaps you would read it.”