March 12. Our talk at the Philomathean and Mr. Whitely's tacit assumption of membership had their penalty for me,—a penalty which, to reverse the old adage, I first thought an undisguised blessing. When we separated, he asked me to dinner the following evening, to fill in a place unexpectedly left vacant; and as I knew, from a chance allusion, that you were to be there, I accepted a courtesy at his hands.

Although there were several celebrities at the meal, it fell to my lot to sit on your right; my host, who took you down, evidently preferring to have no dangerous rival in your attention. But Mrs. Blodgett, who sat on his other side, engaged him as much as she chose, and thus gave me more of your time than I should otherwise have had. If you knew how happy it made me that, whenever she interrupted his monopoly of you, instead of making a trialogue with them, you never failed to turn to me!

"I have just re-read Mr. Whitely's book," you remarked, in one of these interruptions, "and I have been trying to express to him my genuine admiration for it. I thought of it highly when first I read it, last autumn, but on a second reading I have become really an enthusiast."

I suppose my face must have shown some of the joy your words gave me, for you continued, "Clearly, you like it too, and are pleased to hear it praised. But then it's notorious that writers are jealous of one another! Tell me what you think of it?"

I tried to keep all bitterness out of my voice as I laughed. "Think how unprofessional it would be in me to discuss my employer's book: if I praised it, how necessary; if I disparaged it, how disloyal!"

"You are as unsatisfactory as Mr. Whitely," you complained. "I can't get him to speak about it, either. He smiles and bows his head to my praise, but not a word can he be made to say. Evidently he has a form of modesty—not stage fright, but book fright—that I never before encountered. Every other author I have met was fatiguingly anxious to talk about his own writings."

"Remember in our behalf that a book stands very much in the same relation to a writer that a baby does to its mother. We are tolerant of her admiration; be equally lenient to the author's harmless prattle."

"I suppose, too," you went on, "that the historian is less liable to the disease, because his work is so much less his own flesh and blood; so much less emotional than that of the poet or novelist."

"No book worth reading ever fails to be steeped with the spirit of the person who wrote it. The man on the stage is instinct with emotion and feeling, but does he express more of his true individuality than the man in real life? The historian puts fewer of his own feelings into his work, but he plays far less to the gallery, and so is more truthful in what he reveals of himself."

"Your simile reminds me of a thought of my own, after my first reading of this book: that the novelist is the demagogue of letters, striving to please, and suing for public favor by catering to all its whims and weaknesses; but the historian is the aristocrat of literature, knowing the right, and proudly above taking heed of popular prejudice or moods. I liked Mr. Whitely's book for many things, but most of all for its fearless attitude towards whatever it touched upon. I felt that it was the truth, because the whole atmosphere told me that a man was writing, too brave to tell what was untrue. That evidently pleases you, again," you laughed. "Oh, it is horrible to see this consuming jealousy!"

When the ladies withdrew, the men, as usual, clustered at one end of the table; but my host beckoned me to join him, and sat down apart from his guests.

"Dr. Hartzmann, what is the matter at the Philomathean?" he demanded, in a low voice.

"Matter?" I questioned.

"Yes. What is the reason they don't elect me?"

"I am not on the membership committee, Mr. Whitely," I replied.

"Are you popular up there? Mr. Blodgett said that you were."

"I have some good friends," I answered.

"Then electioneer and get me put in," he explained, revealing to me in a flash why he had volunteered that the paper should pay the expenses of my membership.

"I am hardly in a position to do that."

"Why not?"

"I am a new member, and my position under you is so well known that it would be very indelicate in me to appear in the matter."

"For what do you suppose I helped you, then?" he asked severely.

"I did not understand till now."

"Well, then, drop your talk about delicacy, and get your friends to elect me."

"I do not think I can do that," I answered mildly.

"Then you won't earn your pay?"

"Mr. Whitely, when you made the offer, you put it on an entirely different ground, and it is unfair to claim that it involved any condition that was not then expressed."

"But you ought to be willing to do it. Haven't you any gratitude about you?"

"I understood that you wanted one of your staff a member of that club. Had you mentioned your present motive, I should certainly have refused to accept the offer; and under these circumstances I decline to recognize any cause for gratitude."

"What is your objection to doing it, though?" he persisted.

"Indeed, Mr. Whitely, I do not think I am called upon to say more than I have said."

"Do you want me in the club or not?" he demanded.

"I shall certainly never oppose your election in any way whatsoever."

"But you will not work for me?"

"No."

"Are you waiting to see how much I'll give?"

My hand trembled at the insult, but I made no reply.

"Come," he continued, "are you standing out in hopes I will offer you something?"

"No."

"How much?" he asked.

"I have been elected to the Philomathean, Mr. Whitely," I said, concluding that an explanation might be the easiest escape, after all, "and to it I owe a distinct duty. If you were not my employer, I should feel called upon to work against you."

"Why?" he exclaimed, in surprise.

"Is it necessary to say?" I answered.

"Yes. What is your objection to me?"

"Did you never read Æsop's fable of the jackdaw?" I asked.

"That's it, is it? And you are opposing my election?"

"By not the slightest act."

"Then why did Blodgett predict that I would surely be rejected? I've a reputation as a writer, as a philanthropist, and as a successful business man. What more do they want?"

"As I told Miss Walton yesterday," I explained, "a man's true and eventual reputation depends, not on what the world thinks of him, but on what his fellow-craft decide."

"Well?"

"There is scarcely an author or editor at the Philomathean who is not opposed to your election, Mr. Whitely."

"You have been telling tales," he muttered angrily.

"You should know better."

"Then what have they against me?"

"Any man who works with his pen learns that no one can write either editorials or books, of the kind credited to you, without years of training. The most embarrassing ordeal I have to undergo is the joking and questioning with which the fraternity tease me. But you need never fear my not keeping faith."

"Yet you won't help me into the Philomathean?"

"No."

"So you'll make money out of me, but think your club too good?"

"I owe my club a duty."

"I know," he went on smoothly, "that you're an awful screw, when there's a dollar in sight. How much do you want?"

My silence should have warned him, but he was too self-absorbed to feel anything but his own mood.

"How much do you want?" he repeated, and I still sat without speaking, though the room blurred, and I felt as if I were stifling. "The day I'm elected to the Philomathean, I'll give you"—

I rose and interrupted him, saying, "Mr. Whitely, if you wish me to leave your house and employment, you can obtain my absence in an easier way than by insulting me."

For a moment we faced each other in silence, and then he rose. "Hereafter, Dr. Hartzmann, you will pay those dues yourself," he said in a low voice, as he moved towards the door.

I only bowed, glad that the matter was so easily ended; and for nearly two months our relations have been of the most formal kind that can exist between employer and employed.

Far more bitter was another break. When the moment of farewell came, that evening, I waited to put you and Mrs. Blodgett into your carriages, and while we were delayed in the vestibule you thanked me again for the pleasure of the previous afternoon, and then continued: "I understand why you did not feel able to please Mrs. Blodgett about the concert. But won't you let me acknowledge the pleasure of yesterday by sending you a ticket? I have taken a number, and as all my circle have done the same, I am finding it rather difficult to get rid of them."

"That's all right, Maizie," interjected Mrs. Blodgett, who had caught, or inferred from an occasional word that she heard, what you were saying. "We took an extra ticket, and I am going to use the doctor for an escort that evening."

"I thank you both," I answered, "but I shall not be able to attend the concert."

"Nonsense!" sniffed Mrs. Blodgett, as I helped her into her carriage. "You're going to do as I tell you."

You did not speak in the moment we waited for your coupÉ to take its place, but as the tiger opened the door you looked in my face for the first time since my words, showing me eyes that told of the pain I had inflicted.

"I am sorry," you said quietly. "I had thought—hoped—that we were to be friends."

There was nothing for me to say, and we parted thus. From that time I have seen little of you, for when I meet you now you no longer make it possible for me to have much of your society. And my persistent refusal to go to the concert with Mrs. Blodgett and Agnes increased their irritation against me, so that I am no longer asked to their home, and thus have lost my most frequent opportunity of meeting you. But harder even than this deprivation is the thought that I have given you pain; made all the greater, perhaps, because so ill deserved and apparently unreasonable. I find myself longing for the hour when we shall meet at that far-away tribunal, where all our lives, and not alone that which is seen, will stand revealed. For two months I have not had a single moment of happiness or even hope. I am lonely and weary, while my strength and courage seem to lessen day by day. Oh, my darling, I pray God that thought of you will make me stronger and braver, that I may go on with my fight. Good-night.