ng with Rickman in that upper chamber, he entered on the subject
thus--

"Seen anything of the Spinkses lately?"

"I called there last Saturday."

"How is the divine Flossie?"

"Flourishing. At least there's another baby. By the way Maddy you were
grossly wrong about her there. The Beaver is absolutely devoid of the
maternal instinct. She's decent to the baby, but she's positively
brutal to Muriel Maud. How Spinky--He protests and there are horrid
scenes; but through them all I believe the poor chap's in love with
her."

"Curious illusion."

Curious indeed. It had seemed incredible to Rickman when he had seen
the Beaver pushing her first-born from her knee.

"Good Heavens, Rickman, what a deliverance for you."

"I wonder if he's happy."

"Can't say; but possibly he holds his own. You see, Spinky's position
is essentially sound. My theory is--"

But Rickman had no desire for a theory of marriage as propounded by
Maddox. He had always considered that in these matters Maddox was a
brute.

Maddox drew his own conclusions from the disgusted protest. He
remembered how once, when he had warned Rickman of the love of little
women, Rickman had said it was the great women who were dangerous. The
lady to whom he had entrusted the immortality of his Sonnets would be
one of these. As the guardian of that immortality Maddox conceived it
was his duty to call on the lady and prevail on her to give them up.
Under all his loyalty he had the audacity of the journalist who sticks
at nothing for his own glorious end.

There was after all a certain simplicity about Maddox. He considered
himself admirably equipped by nature for this delicate mission. He
was, besides, familiar with what he called the "society woman," and he
believed that he knew how to deal with her. Maddox always had the air
of being able to push his way anywhere by the aid of his mighty
shoulders. He sent in his card without a misgiving.

Lucia knew that Maddox was a friend of Keith Rickman's, and she
received him with a courtesy that would have disarmed a man less
singularly determined. It was only when he had stated his
extraordinary purpose that her manner became such that (so he
described it afterwards) it would have "set a worm's back up." And
Maddox was no worm.

It was a little while before Lucia realized that this rather
overpowering visitor was requesting her to "give up" certain sonnets
of Keith Rickman's, written in ninety-three. "I don't quite