f ghastly horribles
thrown off to get money."

"This sort of work of all kinds is what you call general literary work?"
queried Millard.

"General literary work is the evening dress we put on it when it has to
pass muster before strangers," said Bradley, laughing.

What Millard noted with a sort of admiration was Bradley's perfect
complacency, his contentment in grinding Philistine grists, the zest
even that he evinced for literary pot-hunting, the continual
exhilaration that he got out of this hazardous gamble for a living, and
the rank frankness with which he made his own affairs tributary to the
interest of his conversation.

At length Bradley emptied his pipe and laid it across his manuscript, at
the same time rising nervously from his chair and sitting down on the
bed for a change.

"Millard," he said, with a Bohemian freedom of address, "you must know
more about society than I do. Give me advice on a point of etiquette."

Charley Millard was flattered as he never had been flattered before. He
had not hoped to be considered an oracle so soon.

"You see," Bradley went on, "the publisher of a new magazine called the
'United States Monthly' has asked me to dinner. It is away over in
Brooklyn, and, besides, the real reason I can't go is that I haven't got
a dress-coat. Now what is the thing to do about regrets, cards, and so
on?"

Fresh from reading his new "Guide to Good Manners," Millard felt
competent to decide any question of Bristol-board, however weighty or
complicated. He delivered his opinion with great assurance in the very
words of the book.

"I believe in my soul," said Bradley, laughing, "that you prigged that
from the 'Guide to Good Manners as Recognized in the Very Best
Society.'"

Millard looked foolish, but answered good-naturedly, "Well, what if I
did? Have you read the book?"

Bradley rocked his long slender body backward and forward as though
about to fall into a spasm with suppressed merriment.

"There is only one good thing I can say for that book," he said,
recovering himself.

"What's that?" asked Millard, a little vexed with the unaccountable
mirth of his host.

"Why, that I got two hundred dollars for writing it."

"You wrote it?" exclaimed Millard, not concealing his opinion that
Bradley was not a suitable person to give lessons in politeness.

"You see I was offered two hundred for a book on manners. I needed the
money most consumedly. There was Sampson, who knew, or tho