THE BETTER SORT
but that I've felt her, since parting with her, simply to be too good."
"Signifying by it, naturally," Bight amended, "that you've felt yourself to be so."
"Well, that too if you like. But she was exquisite."
He considered. "Would she do for a ply?"
"Oh God, no!"
"Then for a tile?"
"Perhaps," said Maud Blandy at last.
He understood, visibly, the shade, as well as the pause; which, together, held him a moment. But it was of something else he spoke. "And you who had found they would never bite!"
"Oh, I was wrong," she simply answered. "Once they've tasted blood———!"
"They want to devour," her friend laughed, "not only the bait and the hook, but the line and the rod and the poor fisherman himself? Except," he continued, "that poor Mrs. Chorner hasn't yet even 'tasted.' However," he added, "she obviously will."
Maud's assent was full. "She'll find others. She'll appear."
He waited a moment—his eye had turned to the door of the street. "Then she must be quick. These are things of the hour."
"You hear something?" she asked, his expression having struck her.
He listened again, but it was nothing. "No—but it's somehow in the air."
"What is?"
"Well, that she must hurry. She must get in. She must get out." He had his arms on the table, and, locking his hands and inclining a little, he brought his face nearer to her. "My sense to-night's of an openness———! I don't know what's the matter. Except, that is, that you're great."
She looked at him, not drawing back. "You know
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