I wondered why he looked up so frequently and literally searched our faces. Later he told us that he had stolen Pendleton's story, but we could n't detect the theft. It seemed to me his was entirely different. And so, of course, it was, but the basis of it-not as it was written, but as it grew in Quintus's mind-was Pendleton's delightful "drooling." That story launched Quintus on his career, and he felt under heavy obligaton to Pendleton for the remainder of his life, though I don't think Pendleton ever guessed why. He continued his efforts to "pull those two apart," as he termed it.

Not many months elapsed before Quintus's first novel appeared and proved an instant success. The fact that it was finished, polished work did not astonish me, for Quintus was incapable of anything less; but the sprightly dialogue left me wondering if some one had helped him. It could n't have been Pendleton, because the cleverness was beyond his ability; for a time I suspected it might have been Mary, but she squelched that suspicion with one look. Mary regarded original composition as black art. Whenever any one sat down before a type-writer and produced words without transcribing them from a notebook, Mary felt that something like the laws of gravity had been suspended. Quintus resigned his newspaper work after the novel appeared and devoted all of his time to writing another. Pendleton reported the situation thus:

"He works about eight hours a day, and spends most of the rest of his time listening to Mary drool. He's going to write himself out in a few months. I try to stick in a crowbar once in a while and pry those two apart, but I'm

gradually being frozen out. We 're going to have breakfast at the usual hotel to-morrow. Drift in and join us."

I did so, and thus happened to see Geraldine enter the plot. As I took my seat, Pendleton was scanning the head-lines of a morning newspaper. Mary and Quintus nodded a scanty greeting, then she resumed her interrupted discourse, while Quintus rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward as though he could n't get close enough to her. I picked up a newspaper, and, between head-lines, caught little snatches of the conversation about as follows: "And that's the way she is. . . . She can't help it.. she's really very good-hearted . . . she forgives every one for everything except the people she loves most in the world, and she won't forgive them for even the slightest little thing... she makes her own misery. . . . I would n't be angry with Jim in your place... he's had a lot of trouble that's what makes him so grouchy... he's a good friend and on the square with every one....So that was Jenny's story... but Mabel said nothing of the sort Mabel insists that Jenny was there all the time, and just pretending that she did n't see . . . Tom is so funny always talking about women . . . he does n't believe a word of it himself.

...

.. But after the children came, he was entirely different, and now it's Billie who does n't think that.... His father was a banker out in Iowa.”

Really it was a strange sort of conversational hash she served for breakfast. But I could n't help liking Mary. For one thing, there was never any malice in her gossip. She liked people, and her heart always went out to them. She never stood back hoping

they 'd like her or wondering if they would. There was apparently no ego in the girl at all; she simply left herself out of the equation and devoted all of her thought to the other person. Perhaps that is why people liked to talk to her, for they certainly did talk to her. The pinkish, baby complexion of her cheeks and the innocence of her eyes were captivating, no matter what she said.

As this monologue rattled on, Pendleton and I were apparently forgotten. He winked at me to call attention to the fact.

And just at that moment Geraldine placed her dainty little hand on Pendleton's shoulder.

"Good morning, Penny," was her greeting. I had heard of Geraldine often, and the descriptions must have been fairly accurate, for I knew this was the girl even before introductions took place. She was of indeterminate age, anywhere from twenty to twentyeight, with sparkling black eyes, remarkably perfect teeth, blue-black hair, and a most becoming gown. Her figure was a trifle too slender; I guessed her weight at one hundred and ten pounds.

"This is, indeed, an unexpected honor," she said, with rising inflection, when Pendleton presented Quintus. I have wondered since if it was. Mary received scant recognition. Geraldine immediately launched into a debate with Quintus on the subject of objective realism, whatever that is. At any rate, it left me away out on the outskirts. After some ten or twelve minutes of this animated jargon, Geraldine suddenly recalled that she was a member of another breakfast party on the other side of the dining-room, and that she had come over to ask if we'd

like to meet "the distinguished French philosopher." I have forgotten the name, but at the time he was very distinguished. She addressed the question to Quintus.

"No," he replied. Geraldine raised her eyebrows, and Quintus continued: "If he put his best work into his book, I am already acquainted with him. If he did n't, he 's no good. I don't care to meet him." Geraldine tittered rather nervously, and returned to her own party. Mary resumed her chatter. Pendleton winked at me behind his newspaper. I was mulling over Mary's conversation. It seemed to me that the line about the woman who could forgive every one except those she loved was not so bad.

"I think you ought to go and meet him," Mary said to Quintus. And without the slightest boastfulness, indeed with all modesty, Quintus replied:

"He would do much better to come and meet me. I have forgotten more philosophy than he put in his book. I may not be a successful teller of tales, but I know philosophy." Then, after a pause: "Moreover, he misquoted Plato. That's inexcusable."

The rest of us had to laugh. Quintus glowered at first, but finally smiled.

After a while Geraldine returned to invite all of us to visit her. Mary accepted with delight. I believe she came as near to being devoid of jealousy as any woman could.

When we left the hotel, Pendleton and I walked together, because Mary was still talking. He said:

"I hope Quintus and Geraldine get together. That's the first time I've heard him talk in a month. He needs some one to brush up his wits. A man can't just sit and listen all the time without going stale."

Having no literary ambitions of my own that would furnish a test of the soundness of this statement, I let it pass without comment. I was thinking about Geraldine and people of her sort, for she is a type. They are not numerous, but they exist.

I don't understand how Geraldine, without haunting the Grand Central Station, managed to meet so many "promising young artists." Musicians, writers, designers, poets, painters, and persons of half a dozen other classifications were all artists to Geraldine, and she evidently knew ninety per cent. of them within a week after they reached New York. Now she knew Quintus. The wonder is that she had not found him by the time his first novel was half written. In justice to the young woman, it must be added, that very frequently she did help the struggling new-comers in very important ways. She seemed to know everybody and dealt in wholesale introductions. She also had a habit of generating super-heated enthusiasms about work of a new sort, whatever it happened to be. When Geraldine undertook one of her personally conducted publicity campaigns, a member of "the group" might cast aspersions upon the quality of whatever she was raving about, but he could no longer ignore it. Moreover, the group would include persons who paid money for that particular product. She knew many of these groups.

As I came to know Geraldine better, however, I did n't approve of her despite that abundance of cleverness and good-will. She pretended to be extremely unconventional, but to the best of my information was a fraud through and through. I mean it delighted Geraldine to hear that the

name of one of her young protégés was linked with her own, but it was my observation that caution amounting virtually to panic was her dominant characteristic. What Geraldine wanted to do was marry a man solidly established in his profession and earning a luxurious income. She had helped at least half a dozen young men to that very position, and I think that if at any time one of her enthusiasms had been absolutely sincere, she would have taken a matrimonial chance on the object of it. But Geraldine took no chances-with Geraldine. She wanted her reputation as "the woman who inspired him" insured in advance against possible failure. While she waited, they married. Geraldine was supposed to paint; I never saw any of her work. A trust company sent checks.

Geraldine had a way, in addressing men, that appeared to insinuate that they had once been sweethearts, but were now platonic friends. Her tones seemed to indicate that in return for the wonderful inspiration she had given them, they would reciprocate with any favor she asked. If all that had been true, I think I am sufficiently unconventional to say that I would have regarded Geraldine as a very remarkable woman. But it was n't true. Nearly every one she knew, however, regarded her claims as worthy of credence and respect. In fact, the estimates I heard were rather extravagant in her praise.

§ 3

After Mary and Quintus visited her, Geraldine began towing him around New York to art exhibits, concerts, and a few lectures, though Pendleton said he balked at most of the latter offerings.

In her presence Quintus would talk volubly. She had a formula that was provocative of male conversation. The art of it was fairly simple, consisting principally in starting an argument and then allowing herself to be vanquished, but steering steadfastly toward deeper water that would require more extended exposition. The group looked on hopefully. They said Geraldine could do wonders for Quintus. Mary seemed to think so, too.

One day she introduced him to a new publisher. The latter at once began discussing his forthcoming book. Quintus suggested that they defer that subject until his wife was present.

"I don't know anything about people," he explained. "After she takes a look at you, we'll talk-or not talk, as she advises." The publisher looked at Geraldine. She broke into a bubbling explanation about the beautiful devotion between Quintus and "his wonderful little wife." The group nearly The group nearly always spoke of Mary as "little," though she was rather large.

Mary ret the publisher next day. She wanted to know why Quintus considered a change, in view of the pleasant relations existing between himself and the firm that had brought out his first book. Mary afterward said she approved of the new publisher, but saw no reason for a change. On thinking it over, Quintus also wondered why there should be any change. So there was none. But among the members of the group were several rather effervescently loyal friends of the publisher Geraldine had introduced, and they entered the conspiracy, probably without knowing why.

It was my habit to join various members of this group once or twice a

week, either at some one's house or at dinner in a restaurant. Due to the fact that we seldom talked to each other, the friendship between Quintus and me was of an unobtrusive nature; very few suspected its depth. In any event, they spoke very frankly before me. Probably none of them suspected my devotion to Mary. I was always puzzled, sometimes amused, and more frequently choked with hot resentment as the nature of this well intended, never admitted, and persistent conspiracy disclosed itself. Quintus and Mary were literally encircled by an impish ring of meddlers all of whom, I think, they either liked or loved. Sometimes personal pique against their happy devotion to each other would disclose itself in the most naïve manner. The world being what it is, and ideal marriages no more numerous than they are, the supreme happiness of a husband and wife seems to present a sort of challenge or thorn in the side. to persons of a temperament that does not allow them to continue long contented in any relation. Such members of the group seemed to me little less than fiendish in their concoction of plots to draw Quintus and Mary apart. Her happy nature was always eager for pleasant company and engaging sights, so she accepted many of their invitations. Quintus, with his peculiar detachment, was apparently unaware as to whether he was with a man or

woman.

Gradually they were being drawn apart, at least for two evenings a week. Quintus would usually accompany Geraldine somewhere, talking nearly every step of the way, others reported. What I had seen led me to credit the reports.

The evident pleasure of all who ob

served this situation was the more remarkable because every one of them spoke affectionately of Mary. She was always "a little dear" or "the sweetest girl in the world" or "a darling." They came to her for advice, to repose their secret confidences, and not a few times to borrow small sums of money. Sometimes they even brought their work for her inspection, and seemed delighted with her never failing praise. But they were all agreed that Mary was not intellectual. In that opinion, however, no one concurred more heartily than Mary. She admired all of them. I have often wondered since whether Mary remained ignorant of the conspiracy or was laughing up her sleeve all the time. I hope the latter surmise was correct, and half believe it was, for Quintus regarded her as without living equal at making accurate estimates of others. It may be that Mary in her own canny, motherly watchfulness over Quintus knew that he needed Geraldine in just about the same way that he needed a clean collar on occasion. If this guess is correct, Mary must be given credit for providing precisely the right quantity of both.

84

Again, quite by accident, I happened to be present when another vital event in their lives occurred. Pendleton, Quintus, Mary, and I were having dinner together in an up-town hotel diningroom. Quintus had now won secure recognition as a novelist. There was no longer any doubt about the success of his books despite the rapidity with which they appeared. Pendleton had also left the newspaper and was now engaged in what he termed "pounding out penny-a-worders." However,

he earned considerably more than Quintus.

Mary had been chattering away in her usual manner during the meal. I paid little attention to what she said, but her voice was music. Dessert and coffee were before us. There was an interval of silence, then Quintus, addressing no one in particular, exclaimed:

"Hang all these people. I'm going away. They pull me around and make me nervous. I'm two weeks behind with my work. Why the devil can't they talk to me instead of making me talk? I don't like to talk. It tires me out. What difference does it make whether we agree or not? I'm going to break away. They get me out and prod me with questions. Devil take them! When they've got anything to say, they say it to Mary. Then why pull me around? I'm sick of them."

"If you'd like to go out somewhere and take a house" Mary began, and Quintus interrupted with a decisive "Yes."

Pendleton winked owlishly at me. He quite plainly meant to indicate that Mary was jealous, and had put the idea of seclusion into her husband's mind. At the time I thought his guess might be correct, and if it were, Mary had my warm approval, as, indeed, she always had.

A moment later we were interrupted. There stood a former President of the United States, and he was addressing Quintus, who rose, puzzled, and evidently trying to think of the man's

name.

The exact words escape me, but our distinguished intruder was delighted to meet Quintus and made several other complimentary remarks, to which the author replied, "Yes, sir,"