'Ah?' said Mr. Blatherwick.
'Very like rain,' said James.
'Indeed!' said Mr. Blatherwick.
A pause.
'Pity if it rains,' said James.
'True,' said Mr. Blatherwick.
Another pause.
'Er-Datchett,' said Mr. Blatherwick.
'Yes,' said James.
'I-er-feel that perhaps-'
James waited attentively.
'Have you sugar?'
'Plenty, thanks,' said James.
'I shall be sorry if it rains,' said Mr. Blatherwick.
Conversation languished.
James laid his cup down.
'I have some writing to do,' he said. 'I think I'll be going upstairs now.'
'Er-just so,' said Mr. Blatherwick, with relief. 'Just so. An excellent idea.'
'Er-Datchett,' said Mr. Blatherwick next day, after breakfast.
'Yes?' said James.
A feeling of content was over him this morning. The sun had broken through the clouds. One of the long envelopes which he had received on the previous night had turned out, on examination, to contain a letter from the editor accepting the story if he would reconstruct certain passages indicated in the margin.
'I have-ah-unfortunately been compelled to dismiss Adolf,' said Mr. Blatherwick.
'Yes?' said James. He had missed Adolf's shining morning face.
'Yes. After you had left me last night he came to my study with a malicious-er-fabrication respecting yourself which I need not-ah-particularize.'
James looked pained. Awful thing it is, this nourishing vipers in one's bosom.
'Why, I've been giving Adolf English lessons nearly every day lately. No sense of gratitude, these foreigners,' he said, sadly.
'So I was compelled,' proceeded Mr. Blatherwick, 'to-in fact, just so.'
James nodded sympathetically.
'Do you know anything about West Australia?' he asked, changing the subject. 'It's a fine country, I believe. I had thought of going there at one time.'
'Indeed?' said Mr. Blatherwick.
'But I've given up the idea now,' said James.
Three from Dunsterville
Once upon a time there was erected in Longacre Square, New York, a large white statue, labelled 'Our City,' the figure of a woman in Grecian robes holding aloft a shield. Critical citizens objected to it for various reasons, but its real fault was that its symbolism was faulty. The sculptor should have represented New York as a conjurer in evening dress, smiling blandly as he changed a rabbit into a bowl of goldfish. For that, above all else, is New York's speciality. It changes.
Between 1 May, when she stepped off the train, and 16 May, when she received Eddy Moore's letter containing the information that he had found her a post as stenographer in the office of Joe Rendal, it had changed Mary Hill quite remarkably.
Mary was from Dunsterville, which is in Canada. Emigrations from Dunsterville were rare. It is a somnolent town; and, as a rule, young men born there follow in their father's footsteps, working on the paternal farm or helping in the paternal store. Occasionally a daring spirit will break away. but seldom farther than Montreal. Two only of the younger generation, Joe Rendal and Eddy Moore, had set out to make their fortunes in New York; and both, despite the gloomy prophecies of the village sages, had prospered.
Mary, third and last emigrant, did not aspire to such heights. All she demanded from New York for the present was that it should pay her a living wage, and to that end, having studied by stealth typewriting and shorthand, she had taken the plunge, thrilling with excitement and the romance of things; and New York had looked at her, raised its eyebrows, and looked away again. If every city has a voice, New York's at that moment had said 'Huh!' This had damped Mary. She saw that there were going to be obstacles. For one thing, she had depended so greatly on Eddy Moore, and he had failed her. Three years before, at a church festival, he had stated specifically that he would die for her. Perhaps he was still willing to do that-she had not inquired-but, at any rate, he did not see his way to employing her as a secretary. He had been very nice about it. He had smiled kindly, taken her address, and said he would do what he could, and had then hurried off to meet a man at lunch. But he had not given her a position. And as the days went by and she found no employment, and her little stock of money dwindled, and no word came from Eddy, New York got to work and changed her outlook on things wonderfully. What had seemed romantic became merely frightening. What had been exciting gave her a feeling of dazed helplessness.
But it was not until Eddy's letter came that she realized the completeness of the change. On I May she would
