bungalow in distant Hollywood, with expensive cigars in elaborate
humidors and costly gold-tipped cigarettes in silver things on low
tables. One might smoke freely there in every room.

Under more of the Elmer Huff sort of gossip, and the rhythmic clump
of the cancelling stamp back of the drawers and boxes, he allowed
himself a further glimpse of this luxurious interior. He sat on a
low couch, among soft cushions, a magnificent bearskin rug beneath
his feet. He smoked one of the costly cigarettes and chatted with a
young lady interviewer from Photo Land.

"You ask of my wife," he was saying. "But she is more than a wife--
she is my best pal, and, I may add, she is also my severest critic."

He broke off here, for an obsequious Japanese butler entered with a
tray of cooling drinks. The tray would be gleaming silver, but he
was uncertain about the drinks; something with long straws in them,
probably. But as to anything alcoholic, now--While he was trying to
determine this the general-delivery window was opened and the
interview had to wail. But, anyway, you could smoke where you wished
in that house, and Gashwiler couldn't smoke any closer to his house
than the front porch. Even trying it there he would be nagged, and
fussily asked why he didn't go out to the barn. He was a poor fish,
Gashwiler; a country storekeeper without a future. A clod!

Merton, after waiting in line, obtained his mail, consisting of
three magazines--Photo Land, Silver Screenings, and Camera. As he
stepped away he saw that Miss Tessie Kearns stood three places back
in the line. He waited at the door for her. Miss Kearns was the one
soul in Simsbury who understood him. He had confided to her all his