Promptly, thenextafternoon, MariawasexcitedbyMartin', forsheseatedBrissendeninherparlor'sgrandeurofrespectability.

"Hopeyoudon'tmindmycoming?" Brissendenbegan.

"No, no, notatall," Martinanswered, shakinghandsandwavinghimtothesolitarychair, himselftakingtothebed."ButhowdidyouknowwhereIlived?"

" '." Hetuggedathiscoatpocketandflungathinvolumeonthetable."There'sabook, ." Andthen, inreplytoMartin'sprotest: "WhathaveItodowithbooks? ? No, ."

, and, onturningtoclosethegate, notedwithapangtheshoulders, whichhadoncebeenbroad, drawninnowover, , andfelltoreadingthebookofverse, HenryVaughnMarlow'slatestcollection.

"NoScotch," Brissendenannouncedonhisreturn."'saquartofit."

"I'llsendoneoftheyoungstersforlemons, andwe'llmakeatoddy," Martinoffered.

"IwonderwhatabooklikethatwillearnMarlow?" hewenton, holdingupthevolumeinquestion.

"Possiblyfiftydollars," cametheanswer."Thoughhe'sluckyifhepullsevenonit, orifhecaninveigleapublishertoriskbringingitout."

"Thenonecan'tmakealivingoutofpoetry?"

Martin'stoneandfacealikeshowedhisdejection.

"? Outofrhyming, 'sBruce, andVirginiaSpring, —doyouknowhowVaughnMarlowmakeshisliving?—teachinginaboys' cramming-jointdowninPennsylvania, '! Damnthem, allofthem, thecrassmanikins!"

"Toomuchiswrittenbythemenwhocan'twriteaboutthemenwhodowrite," Martinconcurred."Why, IwasappalledatthequantitiesofrubbishwrittenaboutStevensonandhiswork."