ingle character with any force or completeness.
And then for a novel one wants a leading idea--the plot,
of course, is of no particular consequence. Rather I
should say plots have merged into leading ideas; and I
have none."

"Oh, distinctly!" observed Mr. Ticke finely. "A plot is
as vulgar at this end of the century as a--as a dress
improver, to take a feminine simile."

Rattray looked seriously uncomprehending, and slowly
scratched the back of his hand. "Couldn't you find a
leading idea in some of the modern movements," he asked
--"in the higher education of women, for instance, or
the suffrage agitation?"

"Or University Extension, or Bimetallism, or Eight Hours'
Labor, or Disestablishment!" Elfrida laughed. "No, Mr.
Rattray, I don't think I could.

"I might do some essays," she suggested.

Rattray, tilting his chair back, with his forefingers in
the arm-holes of his waistcoat, pursed his lips "We
couldn't get them read," he said. "It takes a
well-established reputation to carry essays. People will
stand them from a Lang or a Stevenson or that 'Obiter
Dicta' fellow--not from an unknown young lady."

Elfrida bit her lip. "Of course I am not any of those."

"Miss Bell has done some idyllic verse," volunteered
Golightly.

The girl looked at him with serious reprobation. "I did
not give you permission to say that," she said gravely.

"No--forgive me!--but it's true, Rattray." He searched
in his breast pocket and brought out a diminutive
pocket-book. "May I show those two little things I copied?"
he begged, selecting a folded sheet of letter-paper from
its contents. "This is serious, you know, really. We must
go into all the chances."

Elfrida had a pang of physical distress.

"Oh," she said hastily, "Mr. Rattray will not care to
see those. They weren't written for the _Age_, you know,"
she added, forcing a smile.

But Rattray declared that he should like it above all
things, and looked the scraps gloomily over. One Elfrida
had called "A Street Minstrel." Seeing him unresponsive,
Golightly read it gracefully aloud.

"One late November afternoon
I sudden heard a gentle rune.

"I could not see whence came the song,
But, tranced, stopped and listened long;

"And that drear month gave place to May,
And all the city slipped away.

"The coal-carts ceased their din,--instead
I heard a bluebird overhead;

"The pavements, black with dismal rain,
Grew greenly to a country