children try to earn pennies in their playtime; and the men work at
trying to get work.""

"Whereas you? ..." suggested Hal with a twinkle, "work at trying not
to get work."

"Come to supper, and don't be so personal, Hal," said her cousin. "I
wrote a poem on you last week, and called it 'Why Men Die Young.' It
is in a rag called _The Woman's Own Newspaper_. It is also in _The
Youth's Journal_, with the pronouns altered, and a different title; but
I forget what."

"What a waste of time - writing such drivel," Hal flung at him. "Why
don't you compose a masterpiece, and scale Olympus?"

"Too commonplace. Lots of men have done that. Very few are positive
geniuses at writing drivel. I claim to be in the front rank."

They sat down to a lively repast, and Lorraine found herself, instead
of an awe-inspiring, distinguished guest, treated with a frank
camaraderie that was both amusing and refreshing. They all made a butt
of Hal, who was quite equal to the three of them; and when the giant
paraphrased one of her (Lorraine's) most tragic utterances on the stage
into a serio-comic dissertation on a fruit salad they were eating,
lacking in wine, she laughed as gaily as any, and felt she had known
them of years.

Then Hal insisted upon playing a game she had that moment invented,
which consisted of each one confessing his or her greatest failing, and
the gaiety grew.