of writer folk, he is, to-day, said to be one of the greatest writers of
his generation. He is a realist--a modern of the moderns. His pen has
never been debased by an inartistic and antiquated idealism. His claim to
genius rests securely upon the fact that he has no ideals. He writes for
that select circle of leaders who, like the Taines and the Rutlidges, are
capable of appreciating his art. All of which means that he tells filthy
stories in good English. That his stories are identical in material and
motive with the vile yarns that are permitted only in the lowest class
barber shops and in disreputable bar-rooms, in no way detracts from the
admiring praise of his critics, the generosity of his publishers, or the
appreciation of those for whom he writes.

With tottering step and feeble, shaking limbs, Edward Taine entered the
apartment. As he stood, silently looking at his young wife, his glazed,
red-rimmed eyes fed upon her voluptuous beauty with a look of sullen,
impotent lustfulness that was near insanity. A spasm of coughing seized
him; he gasped and choked, his wasted body shaken and racked, his
dissipated face hideously distorted by the violence of the paroxysm.
Wrecked by the flesh he had lived to gratify, he was now the mocked and
tortured slave of the very devils of unholy passion that he had so often
invoked to serve him. Repulsive as he was, he was an object to awaken the
deepest pity.

Mrs. Taine, looking up from her novel, watched him curiously--without
moving or changing her attitude of luxurious repose--without speaking.
Almost, one would have said, a shade of a smile was upon her too perfect
features.

When the man--who had dropped weak and exhausted into a chair--could
speak, he glared at her in a pitiful rage, and, in his throaty whisper,