r held him convulsed for several minutes, during which interval
Gerty continued to regard him with her piquant cynicism.

"Well, if it wasn't Madame Alta it was somebody who is voiceless," she
retorted coolly. "I merely meant that there must have been a reason."

"Oh, your 'reasons'!" ejaculated Perry. Then he stooped and gave the
letter lying on Gerty's pillow a filip from his large pink forefinger.
"You haven't told me what you think of this?" he said.

Picking up the letter Gerty unfolded it and read it slowly through from
start to finish, the little ripple of sceptical amusement crossing and
recrossing her parted lips,

RAVENS NEST,
Fauquier County, Virginia,
December 26, 19--.

_My Dear Perry_: Nobody, of course, ever accused you of being
literary, nor, thank Heaven, have I fallen under that
aspersion--but since the shortest road to success seems to be by
circumvention, it has occurred to me that you might give a social
shove or two to the chap who will hand you this letter sometime
after the New Year.

His name is St. George Trent, he was born a little way up the
turnpike from me, has an enchanting mother, and shows symptoms of
being already inoculated with the literary plague. I never read
books, so I have no sense of comparative values in literature, and
consequently can't tell whether he is an inglorious Shakespeare or
a subject for the daily press. His mother assures me that he has
already written a play worthy to stand beside Hamlet--but, though
she is a charming lady, I'm hardly convinced by her opinion. The
fact remains, however, that he is going to New York to become a
playwright, and that he has two idols in the market place which, I
fancy, you may be predestined to see demolished. He is simply off
his head to meet Roger Adams, the editor of _The_--something or
other I never heard of--and--remember your budding days and be
charitable--a lady who writes poems and signs herself Laura Wilde.
I prepared him for the inevitable catastrophe by assuring him that
the harmless Mr. Adams eats with his knife, and that the lady, as
she writes books, isn't worth much at love-making--the purpose for
which woman was created by God and cultivated by man. Alas, though,
the young are a people of great faith!

Commend me to Mrs. Bridewell, whom I haven't seen since I had the