auline.

"I expect you'd like to have a look at some of my work," he suggested.

"Very much," said Mr. Hazlewood; and in a moment with his dry assent he
had reduced all his son's achievement to the level of a fifth-form
composition. Guy took the manuscripts out of his desk, and, disengaging
from the heap any poems that might be ascribed to the influence of
Pauline, he presented the rest to his father. Mr. Hazlewood settled
himself as comfortably as he could ever seem to be comfortable and
solemnly began to read without comment. Guy would have liked to get up
and leave him alone, for though he assured himself that the opinion,
whether favorable or unfavorable, did not matter, his suspense was sharp
and the inexpression of his father's demeanor, that assumption of
tutorial impartiality, kept him puzzling and unable to do anything but
watch the critic's face and toy mechanically with the hair of Bob's
sentimental head upon his knee.

At last the manuscripts were finished, and Guy sat back for the verdict.

"Oh yes, I like some very much," said Mr. Hazlewood. "But I can't help
thinking that all of them could have been written as well in recreation
after the arduousness of a decent profession. However, you've burned
your boats as far as Fox Hall is concerned, and I shall certainly be the
first to congratulate you if you bring your ambition to a successful
issue."

"You mean monetarily?" Guy asked.

His father did not answer.

"You wouldn't count as a successful issue recognition from the people
who care for poetry?" Guy went on.

"I'm not particularly impressed by contemporary taste," said Mr.
Hazlewood. "We seem to me to be living in a time when all the great men
have gone, and the new generation does not appear likely to fill very
adequately the gap they have left."

"I wonder if there has ever been a time when people have not said just
what you're saying? Do you seriously think you'd recognize a great man
if you saw him?"

"I hope I should," said his father, looking perfectly convinced that he
would.

"Well, I don't believe you would," said Guy. "How do you know I'm not a
great man?"

His father laughed dryly.

"I don't know, my dear Guy, of course, and nothing would gratify me more
than to find out that you were. But, at least, you'll allow me to
observe that _great_ men are generally remarkable for their modesty."

"Yes, after they've been accorded the homage of the world," Guy argued.
"They can affor