equally to both. A genuine poet is incapable of loving a woman.”

“Pshaw! You exaggerate. Of course, there is a measure of truth in what you say, but it is only one side of the truth, and the truth, you know, is always Janus-faced. In fact, it often has more than two faces. I can assure you that I have cared deeply for the women to whom my love-poetry was written. And you will not deny that it is genuine.”

“God forbid! Only you have been using the wrong preposition. You should have said that it was written at them.”

Ernest stared at her in child-like wonder.

“By Jove! you are too devilishly clever!” he exclaimed.

After a little silence he said not without hesitation: