manner. He chatted of his early struggles when he was only too glad
to accept the few paltry hundreds of dollars a week that were
offered him in minor parts; of his quick rise to eminence; of his
unceasing effort to give the public something better and finer; of
his love for the great out-of-doors; and of his daily flight to the
little nest that sheltered his pal wife and the kiddies. Here he
could be truly himself, a man's man, loving the simple things of
life. Here, in his library, surrounded by his books, or in the music
room playing over some little Chopin prelude, or on the lawn romping
with the giant police dog, he could forget the public that would not
let him rest. Nor had he been spoiled in the least, said the
interviewer, by the adulation poured out upon him by admiring women
and girls in volume sufficient to turn the head of a less sane young
man.

"There are many beautiful women in the world." pursued the writer,
"and I dare say there is not one who meets Harold Parmalee who does
not love him in one way or another. He has mental brilliancy for the
intellectuals, good looks for the empty-headed, a strong vital
appeal, a magnetism almost overwhelming to the susceptible, and an
easy and supremely appealing courtesy for every woman he
encounters."

Merton drew a long breath after reading these earnest words. Would
an interviewer some day be writing as much about him? He studied the
pictures of Harold Parmalee that abundantly spotted the article. The
full face, the profile, the symmetrical shoulders, the jaunty
bearing, the easy, masterful smile. From each of these he would
raise his eyes to his own pictured face on the wall above him.
Undoubtedly he was not unlike Harold Parmalee. He noted little