and just as deceptive--a carefully nourished reputation for prudery. I
sometimes think the Gods must laugh or choke. That woman would no more
speak to you without a proper introduction than she would appear on the
street without shoes or stockings. She has never been seen in an evening
gown. Her beautiful shoulders have never been immodestly bared to the
eyes of the world."

The artist thought of that moment on the observation car platform.

Presently, the novelist--refilling his pipe--said whimsically, "Some day,
Mr. King, I shall write a true story. It shall be a novel of to-day, with
characters drawn from life; and these characters, in my story, shall bear
the names of the forces that have made them what they are and which they,
in turn, have come to represent. I mean those forces that are so coloring
and shaping the life and thought of this age."

"That ought to be interesting," said the other, "but I am not quite sure
that I understand."

"Probably you don't. You have not been thinking much of these things. You
have your eye upon Fame, and that old witch lives in another direction. To
illustrate--our bull-necked friend and illustrious critic, James Rutlidge,
in my story, will be named 'Sensual.' His distinguished father was one
'Lust.' The horrible example, Mr. Edward Taine,--boon companion of
'Lust,'--is 'Materialism'."

"Good!" laughed the artist. "I see; go on. Who is the daughter of
'Materialism?'"

"'Ragtime'," promptly returned the novelist, with a grin. "Who else could