"Your lofty imagination plays you fantastic tricks," said Mrs. Bridges. "Is she the famous Western _lady_ reporter?" "The same, of the _Ringville Star_. I met her at the Cincinnati convention. It was there that Bascom of the _Bugle_ called her a bag of gimlets, because she bored him so." "Oh!" This exclamation was not in response to what Crane had said, but it was an involuntary tribute to the moon-flower just flaring into bloom between twin peaks lying dusky and heavy against the mist of silver and gold that veiled the sweet sky beyond. A semi-circle of pale straw-colored fire gleamed in the lowest angle of the notch and sent up long, wavering lines of light almost to the zenith, paling the strongest stars and intensifying the shadows in the mountain gorges and valleys. Grim as angry gods, the pines stood along the slopes, as if gloomily contemplating some dark scheme of vengeance. "A real Sapphic," said Crane, dropping into a poetical tone, as an elocutionist does when he is hungry for an opportunity to recite a favorite sketch. "Why a Sapphic?" inquired the matter-of-fact fashion-editor. "Oh, don't you remember that fragment, that glorious picture Sappho's divine genius has made for us--" He quoted some Greek. "About as divine as Choctaw or Kickapoo," she said. "I understand the moon-shine better. In fact I have a sincere contempt for all this transparent clap-trap you poets and critics indulge in when you got upon your Greek hobby. Divine Sappho, indeed! A lot of bald bits of jargon made famous by the comments of fogies. Let's look at the moon, please, and be sincere." "Sincere!" "Yes, you know very well that if you had written the Sapphic fragments the critics would----" "The critics! What of them? They are a set of disappointed poetasters themselves. Blind with rage at their own failures, they snap right and left without rhyme or reason. Now there's Peck, a regular----" "Well, sir, a regular _what_?" very coolly demanded the critic who had stepped forth from a shadowy angle and now stood facing Crane. "A regular star-gazer," said Mrs. Bridges. "Tell us why the planets yonder all look so ghastly through the shimmering moonlight." Peck, without reply, turned and walked away. "Is he offended?" she asked. "No, he gives offence, but can not take it." Mrs. Bridges grew silent. "We were speaking of Sappho," observed Crane, again gliding into an elocutionary mood. "I have translated the fragment that I repeated a while ago. Let me give it to you. "When on the dusky violet sky The full flower of the moon blooms high The stars turn pale and die!" Just then Miss Moyne, dressed all in white, floated by on Peck's arm, uttering a silvery gust of laughter in response to a cynical observation of the critic. "What a lovely girl she is," said Mrs. Bridges. "Mr. Peck shows fine critical acumen in being very fond of her."