sort of love story for the
last hundred years, and when you've finished your work and your reader
has stood by you to the sweet or bitter end, no one will be any the
wiser or better. You've taught nothing, you've untaught nothing----and
there you are!"

"Oh! A young man with a mission! Do you propose to revolutionize?"

"No; revolutions only roil the water. You might as well try to make
water flow up-hill as to really revolutionize anything. I'd beautify the
banks of the stream, and round the sharp turns in it, and weed it out,
and sow water-lilies, and set the white swan with her snow-flecked
breast afloat. That's what I'd do!"

"That's the art of the landscape gardener; I don't clearly see how it is
of benefit to the novelist, Paul! Now, honestly, is it?"

"You don't catch my meaning, Jack; girls are deuced dull, you know,--I
mean obtuse." Miss. Juno flushed. "I wasn't referring to the novel; I
was saying that instead of writing my all in a vain effort to
revolutionize anything in particular, I'd try to get all the good I
could out of the existing evil, and make the best of it. But let's not
talk in this vein any longer; I hate argument. Argument is nothing but a
logical or illogical set-to; begin it as politely as you please, it is
not long before both parties throw aside their gloves and go in with
naked and bloody fists; one of the two gets knocked out, but he hasn't
been convinced of anything in particular; he was not in condition, that
is all; better luck next time."

"Have you the tobacco, Paul?" asked Miss Juno, extending her hand. The
tobacco was silently passed from one hammock to the other; each rolled a
cigarette, and lit it. Paul blew a great smoke ring into the air; his
companion blew a lesser one that shot rapidly after the larger halo, and
the two were speedily blended in a pretty vapor wraith.

"That's the ghost of an argument, Jack," said Paul, glancing above. He
resumed: "What I was about to say when I was interrupted"--this was his
pet joke; he knew well enough that he had been monopolizing the
conversation of the morning--"what I was about to say was this: my novel
shall be full of love, but you won't know that it is love--I mean the
every-day love of the every-day people. In my book everybody is going to
love everybody else--or almost everybody else; if there is any sort of a
misunderstanding it sha'n't matter much. I hate rows; I believe in the
truest and the fondest fellowship. What is tru