"Ghoulsandharpies!" Brissendensnappedoutwithclickingteeth."Yes, Iknowthespawn—complacentlypeckingathimforhisFatherDamienletter, analyzinghim, weighinghim—"

"Measuringhimbytheyardstickoftheirownmiserableegos," Martinbrokein.

"Yes, that'sit, agoodphrase,—mouthingandbeslimingtheTrue, andBeautiful, andGood, andfinallypattinghimonthebackandsaying, 'Gooddog, Fido.' Faugh! 'Thelittlechatteringdawsofmen,' RichardRealfcalledthemthenighthedied."

"Peckingatstar-dust," Martintookupthestrainwarmly; "—thecritics, orthereviewers, rather."

"Let'sseeit," Brissendenbeggedeagerly.

SoMartinunearthedacarboncopyof "Star-dust," andduringthereadingofitBrissendenchuckled, rubbedhishands, andforgottosiphistoddy.

"Strikesmeyou'reabitofstar-dustyourself, flungintoaworldofcowledgnomeswhocannotsee," washiscommentattheendofit."Ofcourseitwassnappedupbythefirstmagazine?"

Martinranoverthepagesofhismanuscriptbook."Ithasbeenrefusedbytwenty-sevenofthem."

Brissendenessayedalongandheartylaugh, butbrokedowninafitofcoughing.

"Say, youneedn'ttellmeyouhaven'ttackledpoetry," hegasped."Letmeseesomeofit."

"Don'treaditnow," Martinpleaded."Iwanttotalkwithyou.I'llmakeupabundleandyoucantakeithome."

Brissendendepartedwiththe "Love-cycle," and "ThePeriandthePearl," returningnextdaytogreetMartinwith:-

"Iwantmore."

NotonlydidheassureMartinthathewasapoet, 'swork, andastoundedthatnoattempthadbeenmadetopublishit.