"I suppose some people might admire it," I said curtly; "I do not."
This was a lie; and of course he knew it was a lie. The work of Mavis Clare had excited my most passionate envy— while the very fact that Sibyl Elton had read her book before she had thought of looking at mine, had accentuated the bitterness of my feelings.
"Well," said Rimanez at last, smiling as he finished reading my onslaught, "all I can say, Geoffrey, is that this will not touch Mavis Clare in the least. You have overshot the mark, my friend! Her public will simply cry, 'What a shame!' and clamour for her work more than ever. And as for the woman herself,—she has a merry heart, and she will laugh at it. You must see her some day.""I don't want to see her," I said.
"Probably not. But you will scarcely be able to avo
