tween his
eyes I always feel that he is going to hit me."

"I wouldn't hit you. I have some pity left."

"Or fear--which is it?"

"Not fear; pity."

"Why don't you reserve some of it for your readers?"

McGlenn frowned. "I don't expect you to like my books."

"Oh, you have realized the fact that the characters are wooden?"

"No, but I have realized that they are beyond your feeble grasp. I
don't want you to like my books." He hammered his knee. "The book that
wins your regard is an exceedingly bad production. When you search
for facts you may sometimes go to high sources, but when you read
fiction you go to the dogs. A consistent character in fiction is
beyond you."

"There are no consistent characters in life," said Richmond, "and a
consistent character in fiction is merely a strained form of art. In
life the most arrant coward will sometimes fight; the bravest man at
times lacks nerve; the generous man may sometimes show the spirit of
the niggard. But your character in fiction is different. He must be
always brave, or always generous, or always niggardly. He must be
consistent, and consistency is not life."

"But inconsistency is life, and you are, therefore, not dead," McGlenn
replied. "If inconsistency were a jewel," he added, "you would be a
cluster of brilliants. As it is, you are an intellectual fault-finder
and a physical hypochondriac."

"And you are an intellectual cartoon and a physical mistake."

"I won't talk to you. Even the semblance of a gentleman commands my
respect, but I can't respect you. I like truth, but"--

"Is that the reason you seek me?"

"No, it is the reason I avoid you. Brutal prejudice never held a
truth."

"Not when it shook hands with you," Richmond replied.

McGlenn got up, walked over to the piano, came back, looked at his
watch, and addressing Richmond, asked:

"Are you going home, John?"

"Yes, John. Suppose we walk."

"I'll go you; come on."

They bade Henry good evening and together walked off affectionately.

"What do you think of our new friend?" Richmond asked as they strolled
along.

"John, he has suffered. He is a great man."

"I don't know how he may turn out," Richmond said, "but I rather like
him. Of course he hasn't fitted himself to his position--that is, he
doesn't as yet feel the force of old Witherspoon's money. His
experience has gone far toward making a man of him, but his changed
condition may after a while throw his past struggles into