d, and Rosella felt her heart sink. Her
little book (never had it seemed so insignificant, so presumptuous as
now) had been on trial before a relentless tribunal, had indeed
undergone the ordeal of fire. But the verdict, the verdict! Quietly, but
with cold hands clasped tight together, she listened while the greatest
novelist of America passed judgment upon her effort.

"Yes; I've read it," continued Trevor. "Read it carefully--carefully.
You have worked hard upon it. I can see that. You have put your whole
soul into it, put all of yourself into it. The narrative is all there,
and I have nothing but good words to say to you about the construction,
the mere mechanics of it. But----"

Would he never go on? What was this? What did that "But" mean? What else
but disaster could it mean? Rosella shut her teeth.

"But, to speak frankly, my dear girl, there is something lacking. Oh,
the idea, the motif--that----" he held up a hand. "That is as intact as
when you read me the draft. The central theme, the approach, the
grouping of the characters, the dialogue--all good--all good. The thing
that is lacking I find very hard to define. But the _mood_ of the
story, shall we say?--the mood of the story is----" he stopped, frowning
in perplexity, hesitating. The great master of words for once found
himself at a loss for expression. "The mood is somehow truculent, when
it should be as suave, as quiet, as the very river you describe. Don't
you see? Can't you understand what I mean? In this 'Patroclus' the
atmosphere, the little, delicate, subtle sentiment, is
everything--everything. What was the mere story? Nothing without the
proper treatment. And it was just in this fine, intimate relationship
between theme and treatment that the success of the book was to be
looked for. I thought I could be sure of you there. I thought that you
of all people could work out that motif adequately. But"--he waved a
hand over the manuscript that lay at her elbow--"this--it is not the
thing. This is a poor criticism, you will say, merely a marshaling of
empty phrases, abstractions. Well, that may be; I repeat, it is very
hard for me to define just what there is of failure in your 'Patroclus.'
But it is empty, dry, hard, barren. Am I cruel to speak so frankly? If I
were less frank, my dear girl, I would be less just, less kind. You have
told merely the story, have narrated episodes in their sequence of time,
and where the episodes have stopped there you h