in the seclusion of her bed-chamber that evening:

(“You are perfectly right,” with imperturbability. “‘Protect the American young girl lest she protect not herself’ should be the motto and the mission of the American editor!”)

When she was at one with the opportunity, she asked: “And my other faults?”

“Your other faults?” replied the unconscious victim of lagging wit. “There is a strain of philosophy in your mind which unfits you for magazine work. A magazine should be light and not too original. People pick it up after the work of the day; they want to be amused and entertained, they do not want to think. Anything new, anything out of the beaten track, anything which does not suggest old and familiar favorites, anything which requires a mental effort to grasp, annoys them and affects the popularity of the magazine. Of course we like originality and imagination—do not misunderstand me; what we do not want is the complex, the radically original, or the deep. We have catered to a large circle of readers for a great many years; we know exactly what they want, and they know exactly what to expect. When they see the name of a new writer in our pages they feel sure that whatever may be the freshness and breeziness of the newcomer, he (or she) will not call upon them to witness the tunneling of unhewn rock—so to speak. Do you grasp my meaning?”

(Hermia at home in her bed-chamber: “I see. Your distinctions are admirable. You want originality with the sting extracted, soup instead of blood, an exquisite etching rather than the bold sweep and color of brush and oils. Your contributors must say an old thing in a new way, or a new thing in so old a way that the shock will be broken, that the reader will never know he has harbored a new-born babe. Your little lecture has been of infinite value to me. I shall ponder over it until I evolve something worthy of the wary parent and the American Young Girl.”)

Hermia in the editor’s den: “Oh, yes; thank you very much. But I am afraid I shall never do anything you will care for. Good-morning.”

The next day she sent the manuscript to another magazine, and, before she could reasonably expect a reply, again invaded the sanctity of editorial seclusion. The genus editor amused her; she resolved to keep her courage by the throat and study the arbiters of literary destinies. It is probable that, if her second editor had not been young and very gracious, her courage would again have flown off on deriding wings; as it was, it did not even threaten desertion.

She found the editor engaged in nothing more depressing than the perusal of a letter. He smiled most promisingly when she announced herself as the mysterious “Quirus,” but folded his hands deprecatingly.

“I am sorry I cannot use that poem,” he said, “but I am afraid it is impossible. It has decided merit, and, in view of the awful stuff we are obliged to publish, it would be a welcome addition to our pages. I don’t mind the strength of the poem or the plot; you have made your meaning artistically obscure. But there is one word in it which would make it too strong meat for the readers of this magazine. I refer to the word ‘naked.’ It is quite true that the adjective ‘naked’ is used in conjunction with the noun ‘skies;’ but the word itself is highly objectionable. I have been trying to find a way out of the difficulty. I substituted the word ‘nude,’ but that spoils the meter, you see. Then I sought the dictionary.” He opened a dictionary that stood on a revolving stand beside him, and read aloud: “‘Naked—uncovered; unclothed; nude; bare; open; defenseless; plain; mere.’ None of these will answer the purpose, you see. They are either too short or too long; and ‘open’ does not convey the idea. I am really afraid that nothing can be done. Suppose you try something else and be more careful with your vocabulary. I trust you catch my idea, because I am really quite interested in your work. It is like the fresh breeze of spring when it is not”—here he laughed—“the torrid breath of the simoon. I have read some of your other verse, you see.”

“I think I understand you,” said Hermia, leaning forward and gazing reflectively at him. “Manner is everything. Matter is a creature whose limbs may be of wood, whose joints may be sapless; so long as he is covered by a first-class tailor he is a being to strut proudly down to posterity. Or, for the sake of variety, which has its value, the creature may change his sex and become a pink-cheeked, flax-haired, blue-eyed doll. Hang upon her garments cut by an unconventional hand, looped eccentrically and draped artistically, and the poor little doll knows not herself from her clothes. Have I gazed understandingly upon the works of the literary clock?”

The editor threw back his head and laughed aloud. “You are very clever,” he exclaimed, “but I am afraid your estimate of us is as correct as it is flattering. We are a set of cowards, but we should be bankrupt if we were not.”

Hermia took the manuscript he had extracted from a drawer, and rose. “At all events you were charitable to read my verses,” she said, “and more than good to attempt their re-form.”

The editor stood up also. “Oh, do not mention it,” he said, “and write me something else—something equally impassioned but quite irreproachable. Aside from the defect I mentioned, there were one or two verses which I should have been obliged to omit.”

Hermia shrugged her shoulders. She might repeatedly work the lovers up to the verge of disaster, then, just before the fatal moment, wrench them apart and substitute asterisks for curses. The school-girls would palpitate, the old maids thrill, the married women smile, and the men grin. No harm would be done, maidens and maids would lay it down with a long-drawn sigh—of relief?—or regret?

Hermia kept these reflections to herself and departed, thinking her editor a charming man.

When she reached the sidewalk she stood irresolute for a moment, then walked rapidly for many blocks. The Mecca of her pilgrimage was another publishing-house. She stepped briskly upstairs and asked for the editor with a confidence born of excitement and encouragement. After a short delay she was shown into his office, and began the attack without preliminary.

“I have brought you some verses,” she said, “which have been declined by two of your esteemed contemporaries on the ground of unconventionality—of being too highly seasoned for the gentle palates to which they cater. I bring them to you because I believe you have more courage than the majority of your tribe. You wrote two books in which you broke out wildly once or twice. Now I want you to read this while I am here. It will take but a few moments.”

The editor, who had a highly non-committal air, smiled slightly, and held out his hand for the verses. He read them through, then looked up.

“I rather like them,” he said. “They have a certain virility, although I do not mistake the strength of passion for creative force. But they are pretty tropical, and the versification is crude. I—am afraid—they—will hardly—do.”

He looked out of the window, then smiled outright. It rather pleased him to dare that before which his brethren faltered. He made a number of marks on the manuscript.

“That rectifies the crudeness a little,” he said, “and