Rudyard Kipling 89 “Then don’t talk about it.” “How can I help myself? If you find me alone for a minute you are always talking about it; and when you aren't you look it. You don’t know how I despise myself sometimes.” “Great goodness!” said Dick, nearly jumping to his feet. “Speak the truth now, Maisie, if you never speak it again! Do I — does this worrying bore you?” “No. It does not.” “You'd tell me if it did?” “IT should let you know, I think.” “Thank you. The other thing is fatal. But you must learn to forgive a man when he’s in love. He’s always a nuisance. You must have known that?” Maisie did not consider the last question worth answering, and Dick was forced to repeat it. “There were other men, of course. They always worried just when I was in the middle of my work, and wanted me to listen to them.” “Did you listen?” “At first; and they couldn’t understand why IJ didn’t care. And they used to praise my pictures; and | thought they meant it. I used to be proud of the praise, and tell Kami, and —I shall never forget — once Kami laughed at me.” “You don’t like being laughed at, Maisie, do you?” “T hate it. I never laugh at other people unless — unless they do bad work. Dick, tell me honestly what you think of my pictures generally, — of everything of mine that you've seen.” “‘Honest, honest, and honest over!” quoted Dick from a catchword of long ago. “Tell me what Kami always says.” Maisie hesitated. “He — he says that there is feeling in them.” “How dare you tell mea fib like that? Remember, I