enced the library-woman, in an
argument as to whether Longfellow or Whittier was the better poet, by
parroting the whole of "Snow Bound."

She fancied that Phil's general pea-weevil aspect concealed the soul of
a poet. But she was shocked out of her pleasant fabling when Phil roared
at Mrs. Gray: "Say, what did the baker use this pie for? A bureau or a
trunk? I've found three pairs of socks and a safety-pin in my slab, so
far."

Pretty Mrs. Gray was hurt and indignant, while her husband growled: "Aw,
don't pay any attention to that human phonograph, Amy. He's got bats in
his belfry."

Una had acquired a hesitating fondness for the mute gentleness of the
others, and it infuriated her that this insect should spoil their
picnic. But after dinner Phil Benson dallied over to her, sat on the arm
of her chair, and said: "I'm awfully sorry that I make such a bum hit
with you, Miss Golden. Oh, I can see I do, all right. You're the only
one here that can understand. Somehow it seems to me--you aren't like
other women I know. There's something--somehow it's different. A--a
temperament. You dream about higher things than just food and clothes.
Oh," he held up a deprecating hand, "don't deny it. I'm mighty serious
about it, Miss Golden. I can see it, even if you haven't waked up to it
as yet."

The absurd part of it was that, at least while he was talking, Mr. Phil
Benson did believe what he was saying, though he had borrowed all of his
sentiments from a magazine story about hobohemians which he had read the
night before.

He also spoke of reading good books, seeing good plays, and the lack of
good influences in this wicked city.

He didn't overdo it. He took leave in ten minutes--to find good
influences in a Kelly pool-parlor on Third Avenue. He returned to his
room at ten, and, sitting with his shoeless feet cocked up on his bed,
read a story in _Racy Yarns_. While beyond the partition, about four
feet from him, Una Golden lay in bed, her smooth arms behind her aching
head, and worried about Phil's lack of opportunity.

She was finding in his loud impudence a twisted resemblance to Walter
Babson's erratic excitability, and that won her, for love goes seeking
new images of the god that is dead.

Next evening Phil varied his tactics by coming to dinner early, just
touching Una's hand as she was going into the dining-room, and murmuring
in a small voice, "I've been thinking so much of the helpful things you
said last eveni