sidine,
the novelist who had come to New York for the winter, called. He was
one of the Angel's dearest friends, and we greeted him with effusion.

"I've come to say good-bye," he said at once. "I'm off to-morrow for
my farm."

"For a visit?" I cried, unwilling to believe the worst.

"No, for good. I'm done. I'm finished. New York has put an end to
me!"

"Why, how do you mean?" we asked, in a breath.

"The noise! The blankety, blankety, et cetera noise of this ditto
ditto town! The remainder of these remarks will be sent in a plain,
sealed envelope upon application and the receipt of a two-cent stamp!"

The Angel and I looked at each other. We dared not speak.

"How--why--" I faltered at last.

It was all Considine needed--perhaps more than he needed--to set him
going.

"I came here under contract, as you know. I was behindhand in my work,
but I hoped that the inspiration I would receive from the society of my
fellow authors would give me an impetus I lacked in the country. There
I often have to spur myself to my work. Here I hoped to work more
steadily and with less effort. Ye gods!" He got up and strode around
the apartment. "Ye gods! What fallacies we provincials believe! I
was in heaven on my farm and didn't know it! And from that celestial
paradise of peace and quiet and tranquillity of nature, I deliberately
came to this--with a view of bettering my surroundings! When I think
of it--when I consider the money I have spent and the time I have
lost--" he stopped by reason of choking.

"Why, do you know," he began again, squaring around on the Angel, "I've
spent twenty thousand dollars on that apartment of mine, trying to make
it sound-proof so that I could make ten thousand by writing! I rented
the apartment below me--had to, in order to get a fellow out whose son
was learning the violin. I've bribed, threatened, enjoined, and at the
last a subway explosion of dynamite broke all the double windows and
mirrors, knocked down my Italian chandeliers, and--people tell me I
have no redress! Now they have started some kind of a drilling machine
in the next block that runs all night, and I can't sleep. New York to
live in? New York to work in? Why, I'd rather be a yellow dog in
Louisville than to be Mayor of New York!"

But before he could go the bell rang and Mr. and Mrs. Jimmie walked in,
so then Considine came back for ten minutes, and stayed two hours.

We told them what we had been