ddress is in my pocket, and I have received a pressing invitation to
call. If you choose to send the MSS. by another messenger you will
relieve me of the task of carrying a bundle, but you will accomplish
nothing more."

Mr. Gouger's mouth opened in astonishment at the evident advantage which
his friend had gained in so short a time.

"You must have convinced her that your literary opinions are of value,"
he said, presently. "If I write that you are a charletan and entirely
unworthy of attention, what will happen then?"

The smiling gentleman opposite crossed his hands over his left knee, and
did not delay his answer.

"I will tell you," he said. "In the same mail she will receive a letter
from me, warning her that a certain party, who has given an adverse
judgment on her writings, may attempt to influence her against others
more likely to decide in her favor. She will be told that, having
rejected a book, this certain party does not wish any one else to print
it. Send the severest note you can construct, Lawrence. I have few
talents, but I know how to write letters."

The critic could hardly believe that fate had thrown so many cords
around his neck in the brief space of one hour, but the more he thought
the more he became convinced that his best course was to shut his eyes.

"Well, gang your gait," he said, after a long pause, during which the
look of triumph deepened on his companion's face. "You will have to
answer for your own sins. But I'll tell you one thing, that may save
your time. Women who write racy novels are almost without exception
remarkably correct in their own lives."

Mr. Weil inquired if his friend was certain of this, and there was a
suspicion of disappointment in his tone.

"Absolutely," said Mr. Gouger, refreshing his memory. "I can think of a
dozen instances to prove the point. There is Lelia Dante, for instance,
who writes like a--like a--well, you know how she writes. She sticks to
her mother's apron strings like a four-year-old child. They never are
seen apart, I am told. Then there is Mrs. Helen Walker Wilbur, the
poetess. We have a volume of her verse that is positively combustible
from its own heat. The sheets had to be run off the press soaked in
water to keep them from igniting. The room was full of steam all the
time the work was going on. Warm! I should say so! Now, that woman is
vain, and she dresses foolishly, and she does odd things for the sake of
being talked about--but no