"No! How--how amazing. What do you write?"

"I'm on a play now."

"A Comedy?"

"No. A Tradgedy. How can I write a Comedy when a play must always end
in a catastrofe? The book says all plays end in Crisis, Denouement and
Catastrofe."

"I can't beleive it," he said. "But, to tell you a Secret, I never read
any books about Plays."

"We are not all gifted from berth, as you are," I observed, not to
merely please him, but because I considered it the simple Truth.

He pulled out his watch and looked at it in the moonlight.

"All this reminds me," he said, "that I have promised to go to work
tonight. But this is so--er--thrilling that I guess the work can wait.
Well--now go on."

Oh, the Joy of that night! How can I describe it? To be at last in
the company of one who understood, who--as he himself had said in "Her
Soul"--spoke my own languidge! Except for the occasional mosquitoe,
there was no sound save the turgescent sea and his Voice.

Often since that time I have sat and listened to conversation. How flat
it sounds to listen to father prozing about Gold, or Sis about Clothes,
or even to the young men who come to call, and always talk about