nished. What he would do next he did not know. All that he did
know was that a climacteric in his life had been attained. A period had
been reached, and he was rounding it off in workman-like fashion. He was
not curious about the future. He would soon enough find out what it held
in store for him. Whatever it was, it did not matter. Nothing seemed to
matter.

For five days he toiled on at "Overdue," going nowhere, seeing nobody,
and eating meagrely. On the morning of the sixth day the postman brought
him a thin letter from the editor of The Parthenon. A glance told him
that "Ephemera" was accepted. "We have submitted the poem to Mr.
Cartwright Bruce," the editor went on to say, "and he has reported so
favorably upon it that we cannot let it go. As an earnest of our
pleasure in publishing the poem, let me tell you that we have set it for
the August number, our July number being already made up. Kindly extend
our pleasure and our thanks to Mr. Brissenden. Please send by return
mail his photograph and biographical data. If our honorarium is
unsatisfactory, kindly telegraph us at once and state what you consider a
fair price."

Since the honorarium they had offered was three hundred and fifty
dollars, Martin thought it not worth while to telegraph. Then, too,
there was Brissenden's consent to be gained. Well, he had been right,
after all. Here was one magazine editor who knew real poetry when he saw
it. And the price was splendid, even though it was for the poem of a
century. As for Cartwright Bruce, Martin knew that he was the one critic
for whose opinions Brissenden had any respect.

Martin rode down town on an electric car, and as he watched the houses
and cross-streets slipping by he was aware of a regret that he was not
more elated over his friend's success and over his own signal victory.
The one critic in the United States had pronounced favorably on the poem,
while his own contention that good stuff could find its way into the
magazines had proved correct. But enthusiasm had lost its spring in him,
and he found that he was more anxious to see Brissenden than he was to
carry the good news. The acceptance of The Parthenon had recalled to him
that during his five days' devotion to "Overdue" he had not heard from
Brissenden nor even thought about him. For the first time Martin
realized the daze he had been in, and he felt shame for having forgotten
his friend. But even the shame did not burn ver