y; and of this beggarly handful two-thirds
were women. Shelby assumed a cheerful front, declaring that a small
audience so assembled was deserving of his best, but hewing to this
line was another matter. Womankind are proverbially indifferent to
politics; and a stouter resolution than his would have flagged in the
presence of that preoccupied feminine two-thirds, whose eyes were
centred on Mrs. Hilliard's tailor-made gown and Ruth Temple's fall hat.
Used as he was to easy victory, this first disappointment of his
campaign seemed bodeful of evil days to come.

CHAPTER X

Yet when mischief speedily befell, it wore so curious a guise that
Shelby missed its import and laughed it aside for a random fling of
jocund Fate. It began with a publisher's announcement of a volume
containing the collected poems of the author of the admired, imitated,
parodied, and derided ode on the "Victory of Samothrace," anonymous no
longer, but the avowed offspring of Bernard Graves. Dazed,
incredulous, and slow to do him honor, the prophet's own country
advanced a theory of mistaken identity. But reluctant New Babylon had
soon to recognize the young man's vogue. Through its supposed advocacy
of woman suffrage the poem had all but founded a cult, and the
disclosure of its true author, after months of guesswork and
silly-season gush, bounced and ricochetted among the newspapers with
astonishing ado. With the _Whig_ in the forefront the local press
began to echo the gossiping paragraphs and character sketches which,
true, half true, and of whole cloth, padded the lean columns of a
mediocre literary season, and New Babylon had faith. The last doubting
Thomas yielded when it became necessary to convey the celebrity's mail
to his home in a special bag; not even the ensuing plague of special
correspondents, biographical dictionary solicitors, photographers, and
worshipping pilgrims so stirred the local imagination; this surely was
fame!

To Ruth Temple, who by some sorcery guessed his secret before its
public revelation, Graves went with his laurels thick upon him.

"How does it feel to be a celebrity?" he said, meeting her volley of
questions collectively. "Much like a breakfast cereal, a patent
medicine, or a soap. Byron said that the first thing which sounded
like fame to him was the tidings that he was read on the banks of the
Ohio. It's different nowadays. The first taste usually comes from
seeing your name placarded on a de