He read on in silence for a little; then laying down the magazine looked
at me with a curiously scrutinizing expression.
"There are some human beings so constituted," he said, "that if they had
been with Noah in the ark according to the silly old legend, they would
have shot the dove bearing the olive-leaf, directly it came in sight
over the waste of waters. You are of that type Geoffrey."
"I do not see the force of your comparison," I murmured.
"Do you not? Why, what harm has this Mavis Clare done to you? Your
positions are entirely opposed. You are a millionaire; she is a
hard-working woman dependent on her literary success for a livelihood,
and you, rolling in wealth do your best to deprive her of the means of
existence. Does this redound to your credit? She has won her fame by her
own brain and energy alone,--and even if you dislike her book need you
abuse her personally as you have done in this article? You do not know
her; you have never seen her, ..."
"I hate women who write!" I said vehemently.
"Why? Because they are able to exist independently? Would you have them
all the slaves of man's lust or convenience? My dear Geoffrey, you are
unreasonable. If you admit that you are jealous of this woman's
celebrity and grudge it to her, then I can understand your spite, for
jealousy is capable of murdering a fellow-creature with either the
dagger or the pen."