He told me to tell him so," said Pollyooly.
"Well, I'm glad they didn't scrap," said Mr.James in a tone of relief.
"If they didn't at once, they're not very likely to later." "Oh, no: they won't now," said Pollyooly confidently.

"You see as soon as he heard that Mr.Butterwick was her--her fiongsay"-- she hesitated over the word because Hilary Vance had shaken her original conception of its pronunciation--"he gave her up for good." "That is a blessing," said the novelist in a tone of yet greater relief.
He had been looking forward to a disagreeable and very likely hopeless struggle with his friend's infatuation.
He walked down the passage and into the studio briskly.

But not quickly enough to prevent an expression of funereal gloom flooding Hilary Vance's face.
"How are you ?" said Mr.James cheerfully.
"In the depths--in the depths--my last illusion shattered," said the artist in the gloomiest kind of despairing croak.
"Oh, you never know," said Mr.James.
"I shall never trust a woman again--never," said the artist in an inexorable tone.
"But I thought you'd given up trusting them months ago," said Mr.James in considerable surprise.
"I was deceived--this one seemed so different.

She was a serpent--a veritable serpent," said Hilary Vance in his deepest tone.
"Yes.

They are apt to be like that," said Mr.James with some carelessness.