a cigarette for the lady, and his own, and definitely gave up his work for the day. His whole attitude expressed fatigue, and he hid his face for a moment on his outstretched arm and yawned. Then he woke to the social demand. The lady was looking at him with exigent eyes.
"I don't think I shall be so good to you another time," she said. "It tires you as well as me, and then you don't talk!" And she laughed a little. "And I believe I like your talk even better than your picture, though I don't doubt that's going to be good. But I don't want you to be entirely drowned in it!"
"That's the worst of work," said Basil, leaning forward and looking smilingly attentive. "It prevents one from doing more interesting things."
"Not more interesting to you. I watched your face that last half hour, and I never saw you so absorbed in anything. You change quite amazingly—you look keener, harder, and all the friendliness goes out of you. I don't think I like you as much that way. But I believe it's the real you, and the other thing is only a social form. You don't really like people as much as you pretend to!"
"I like some people as much as I pretend to," said Basil amiably. "And I like people really more than work, if that's what you mean. I enjoy talking to you, for example, much more than
