o the window,--not that one outside of which Lucyet was
sitting,--"pity for those young souls throbbing with the consciousness
of power who may have forgotten to enclose a stamp for return. I feel
when I interrupt you as if I were holding back the remorseless wheel of
fate."

His companion allowed this speculative remark to pass without reply. The
idler sauntered back to the table.

"What'll you bet, now, before you go any further, that it'll go into the
waste-basket?"

"Stamped and addressed envelope enclosed," observed the patient editor,
absently.

"Well, what odds will you give me of its being not necessarily devoid of
literary merit, but unfitted for the special uses of your magazine?"

The other was still silent as he laid aside another page.

"Half the time," continued the idler, "to look at you, you wouldn't
believe that you speak the truth when you express your thanks for the
pleasure of reading their manuscripts. It would seem that that, too,
was simulated."

The older man picked up a soft felt hat and threw it across the room at
his companion, without taking his eyes from the page.

"Oh, well," went on the other, "I can read the newspaper. I can read
what is printed, while you're reading what ought to be. Of course you
and I know the things are never the same."

Picking up the paper, he resumed, approximately, his former attitude,
and applied himself to its columns for a few moments of silence. Outside
Lucyet sat quietly, her head resting against the white wooden wall of
the house; and the editor made a mark or two.

"Now this is what the public want to know," resumed the idler, with a
gratuitous air of having been pressed for his opinion. "You editors have
a ridiculous way of talking about the public--"

"It strikes me that it is not I who have been making myself ridiculous
talking about anything."

"The public! You just tell the great innocent public that you are giving
them the sort of thing they like, and half the time they believe you,
and half the time they don't. Now this man"--and he tapped the
"Chronicle"--"knows an editor's business."

"Which is more than you do," interpolated the goaded man.

"'The frame for William Brown's new house is up. William may be trusted
to finish as well as he has begun,'" read the idler, imperturbably.
"'Miss Sophie Brown is visiting friends in Albany. The boys will be glad
to see her back.' 'Fruit of all kinds will be scarce, though berries
will be abu