to the stranger the
praise.

"... And, Beth, if you want to dig for his views, you'll get them. He
says New York plucks everything green; opinionates on the wing, makes
personal capital out of another's offering, refusing to wait for the
fineness of impersonal judgment. He asks nothing more stimulating than
the capacity to say on occasion, 'I don't know,' flat and unqualified.
He sees everywhere, the readiness to be clever instead of true. So many
New Yorkers, he says, are like fishes, that, knowing water, disclaim
the possibility of air.

"You know, Beth, Bedient never encountered what America was thinking
and reading, until a few months ago down on his Island.
We are editorialists in the writing game, he declares,
what-shall-I-write-about-to-day-folks! We don't wait for fulness, but
wear out brain thin bandying about what drops on it. If we would wait
until we were full men, we would _have_ to write, and not drive
ourselves to the work----"

"Oh, I do believe that!" Beth said. "We need to be reminded of that."

"That _we_ is very pretty, Beth," Cairns went on. "...Such a queer
finished incident happened yesterday. I hunted up Bedient at noon, and
we talked about some of these matters. And then we met Ritchold for
luncheon. It was at _Teuton's_. I took Bedient aside and whispered with
a flourish, 'One of our ten-thousand-a-year editors, Andrew.'... 'What
makes him worth that?' he asked. 'He knows what the people want,' I
replied. Can you see us, Beth?...

"The luncheon was interesting. Bedient and Ritchold got together
beautifully. The talk was brisk and big, just occasionally cutting the
edges of shop. Both men came to me afterward. 'Splendid chap, your
friend,' Ritchold said. 'A man who has seen so much and can talk so
well, ought to _write_. Thanks for meeting him.'

"'I was very glad to meet Mr. Ritchold,' Bedient remarked later--hours
later--after I had given up hope of hearing on the subject. 'I think he
shows where one trouble lies.... It's in _him_ and his kind, David. His
periodical sells to the great number. He is a very bright man, and his
art is in knowing what the great number wants. Being brighter, and of
finer discernment, than those who buy his product, he debases his taste
to make his organs relish the coarser article. That's the first
evil--prostituting himself.... Now a people glutted with what it wants
is a stagnant people. Its only hope is in such men as Ritchold leading
them to the higher