heard nothing. That is a trick of his trade. Let us see now if he will
agree to buy. If he refuses, it will be a clear case that he has heard
and purloined it. Come, Dennison, here's a chance for a ten
thousand-word symposium debate, 'Are we, as a nation, less polite than
the Japanese?' We offer it for a hundred and fifty cash, and cheap at
the price."

Mr. Dennison, who was a keen-eyed, quiet man, with a brown, closely-cut
beard, had paused in his occupation of buttering hot toast for the
impending rabbit, and was smiling quizzically. "If you have literary
secrets to dispose of, Mrs. Littleton, let me warn you against making a
confidant of Dr. Page. Had you spoken to me first, there is no knowing
what I might have--"

"What did I tell you?" broke in the doctor. "A one hundred and
fifty-dollar idea ruthlessly appropriated. These editors, these
editors!"

It was tantalizing to Selma to be skirting the edge of themes she would
have enjoyed to hear treated seriously. She hoped that Mr. Dennison
would inquire if she really wrote, and at least he would tell her
something about his magazine and literary life in New York. But he took
up again his task of buttering toast, and sought to interest her in
that. Presently she was unable to resist the temptation of remarking
that the editorship of a magazine must be one of the most interesting of
all occupations; but he looked at her with his quizzical smile, and
answered:

"Between you and me, Mrs. Littleton, I will confide to you that a
considerable portion of the time it is a confounded bore. To tell the