sincere. I do think it's inconsiderate of them to admit the public to
the parks. They ought to exclude all the lower classes, the people, at
one fell swoop, and then to discriminate tremendously amongst the
others."

"Mercy, what undemocratic sentiments!" she cried. "The People, the poor
dear People--what have they done?"

"Everything. What haven't they done? One could forgive their being dirty
and stupid and noisy and rude; one could forgive their ugliness, the
ineffable banality of their faces, their goggle-eyes, their protruding
teeth, their ungainly motions; but the trait one can't forgive is their
venality. They're so mercenary. They're always thinking how much they
can get out of you--everlastingly touching their hats and expecting you
to put your hand in your pocket. Oh, no, believe me, there's no health
in the People. Ground down under the iron heel of despotism, reduced to
a condition of hopeless serfdom, I don't say that they might not develop
redeeming virtues. But free, but sovereign, as they are in these days,
they're everything that is squalid and sordid and offensive. Besides,
they read such abominably bad literature."

"In that particular they're curiously like the aristocracy, aren't
they?" said she. "By-the-bye, when are you going to publish another book
of poems?"

"Apropos of bad literature?"

"Not altogether bad. I rather like your poems."

"So do I," said he. "It's useless to pretend that we haven't tastes in
common."

They were both silent for a bit. She looked at him oddly, an inscrutable
little light flickering in her eyes. All at once she broke out with a
merry trill of laughter.

"What are you laughing at?" he demanded.

"I'm hugely amused," she answered.

"I wasn't I aware that I'd said anything especially good."

"You're building better than you know. But if I am amused, _you_ look
ripe for tears. What is the matter?"

"Every heart knows its own bitterness," he answered. "Don't pay the
least attention to me. You mustn't let moodiness of mine cast a blight
upon your high spirits."

"No fear," she assured him. "There are pleasures that nothing can rob of
their sweetness. Life is not all dust and ashes. There are bright
spots."

"Yes, I've no doubt there are," he said.

"And thrilling little adventures--no?" she questioned.

"For the bold, I dare say."

"None but the bold deserve them. Sometimes it's one thing, and sometimes
it's another."

"That's very certain," he ag