this was Literature, this was Culture and Refinement. The
Renaissance had appeared in the West.

She was a short, rather stout, red-faced, very much over-dressed little
woman of some fifty years. She was rich in her own name, even before
her marriage, being a relative of Shelgrim himself and on familiar terms
with the great financier and his family. Her husband, while deploring
the policy of the railroad, saw no good reason for quarrelling with
Shelgrim, and on more than one occasion had dined at his house. On this
occasion, delighted that she had come upon a "minor poet," she insisted
upon presenting him to Hartrath.

"You two should have so much in common," she explained.

Presley shook the flaccid hand of the artist, murmuring
conventionalities, while Mrs. Cedarquist hastened to say:

"I am sure you know Mr. Presley's verse, Mr. Hartrath. You should,
believe me. You two have much in common. I can see so much that is alike
in your modes of interpreting nature. In Mr. Presley's sonnet, 'The
Better Part,' there is the same note as in your picture, the same
sincerity of tone, the same subtlety of touch, the same nuances,--ah."

"Oh, my dear Madame," murmured the artist, interrupting Presley's
impatient retort; "I am a mere bungler. You don't mean quite that, I am
sure. I am too sensitive. It is my cross. Beauty," he closed his sore
eyes with a little expression of pain, "beauty unmans me."

But Mrs. Cedarquist was not listening. Her eyes were fixed on the
artist's luxuriant hair, a thick and glossy mane, that all but covered
his coat collar.

"Leonine!" she murmured-- "leonine! Like Samson of old."

However, abruptly bestirring herself, she exclaimed a second later:

"But I must run away. I am selling tickets for you this afternoon, Mr.
Hartrath. I am having such success. Twenty-five already. Mr. Presley,
you will take two chances, I am sure, and, oh, by the way, I have such
good news. You know I am one of the lady members of the subscription
committee for our Fair, and you know we approached Mr. Shelgrim for a
donation to help along. Oh, such a liberal patron, a real Lorenzo di'
Medici. In the name of the Pacific and Southwestern he has subscribed,
think of it, five thousand dollars; and yet they will talk of the
meanness of the railroad."

"Possibly it is to his interest," murmured Presley. "The fairs and
festivals bring people to the city over his railroad."

But the others turned on him, expostulating.