say to some men: 'How's the baby?'"

Denver laughed good-naturedly, and Granice thought how thick and
heavy he had grown. It was evident, even to Granice's tortured
nerves, that the words had not been uttered in malice--and the fact
gave him a new measure of his insignificance. Denver did not even
know that he had been a failure! The fact hurt more than Ascham's
irony.

"Come in--come in." The editor led the way into a small cheerful
room, where there were cigars and decanters. He pushed an arm-chair
toward his visitor, and dropped into another with a comfortable
groan.

"Now, then--help yourself. And let's hear all about it."

He beamed at Granice over his pipe-bowl, and the latter, lighting
his cigar, said to himself: "Success makes men comfortable, but it
makes them stupid."

Then he turned, and began: "Denver, I want to tell you--"

The clock ticked rhythmically on the mantel-piece. The room was
gradually filled with drifting blue layers of smoke, and through
them the editor's face came and went like the moon through a moving
sky. Once the hour struck--then the rhythmical ticking began again.
The atmosphere grew denser and heavier, and beads of perspiration
began to roll from Granice's forehead.

"Do you mind if I open the window?"