ou. Several of
his friends were here at dinner the other night--I was so sorry you
were unable to come--and really they seemed to be able to talk of
nothing else. They are all very charming to me now, but I am wondering
if they will be more than amiably interested in me when I am merely the
wife of a famous playwright?"

"Oh, you must do something yourself," said Miss Dwight emphatically.
"I am sure you could write. And equally sure that you will try, for
you could not live constantly with such workers as we are without being
stung by the same busy little bee. You have suggested genius to me
from the first, and I am convinced it is not merely the genius of
personality. Your life has stifled your talents, but now is the time
to discover them and take your place in American letters."

"I had thought such talents as I possessed should be used in the
attempt to play a humble part in the reconstruction of Europe,"
murmured Madame Zattiany; and one of her beautiful white hands moved
toward the cigarette box with a curious tensing of the muscles that
seemed to rob it subtly of its likeness to flesh. Nothing escaped Miss
Dwight's observing eye, and she replied casually: "Oh, Europe isn't
worth the effort, dear Madame Zattiany. It's too far gone. The future
of the world lies here in the United States. New York is the brain and
soul of the United States. Moreover, if you want to help Europe, you
can write about it here, be the one to give us all a clearer
understanding of that miserable chaos."

"But I detest writing," said Madame Zattiany, who was lying back and
watching her smoke rings. "I like the activity of doing, and I have
had an experience that particularly fits me for political intrigue. If
this were Washington, now----"

"Oh, Washington! Washington is merely one of the islands outside of
New York. So is Chicago, Boston, the rest of them. . . . And don't
imagine you would not become fascinated with writing as soon as you
were in your stride. Here is a simple recipe to begin with. Get up
every morning with the set intention of writing and go to your desk and
sit there for three hours, whether you accomplish anything or not.
Before long you will find that you are writing madly, not waiting for
inspiration. And you will have Clavey to criticize you. The rest is
only stern self-discipline. Here is another suggestion: when you have
brain fag go to bed for two days and starve. The result is miraculous.