He put them side by side on Deck and told them to comfort each other, in case anything happened. They never could have been quite the same to each other after that Day. Bernice wanted to get back on Shore and hunt her Room and peel down to a Kimono and refuse any Callers for a Month. Even the accepted Swain was beginning to slow up. He could remember the time when he used to sit around with members of his own Sex. Father had no Mercy. He took the two Invalids back to Land and rounded them up for Breakfast next morning. When Kenneth appeared, he was slightly greenish in Color. One Ear was three times as large as the other. He had caught a Sniffy Cold. In partaking of his Coffee he made Sounds similar to those coming through the Partition when the People in the adjoining Flat have trouble with the Plumbing. He saw Bernice glaring at him and bit his Nails in Embarrassment. Father felt the Crisis impending and laid on the last Straw. "I was trying to recall that Story," said he--"the One about the German and the Dog." Bernice gave one Shriek and then dashed from the Room, making hysterical Outcries along the Corridor. Father told Kenneth to check all the Trunks for Home and then catch an early Train. Bernice was squirming about on the Hotel Sofa when Father entered the Room. She threw herself into his Arms and passionately demanded, "Why, oh, why are you trying to force me into marrying that Creature?" MORAL: Don't get acquainted too soon. THE NEW FABLE OF THE UPLIFTER AND HIS DANDY LITTLE OPUS Once there was a Litry Guy who would don his Undertaker's Regalia and the White Satin Puff Tie and go out of an Afternoon to read a Paper to the Wimmen. At every Tea Battle and Cookie Carnival he was hailed as the Big Hero. A good many pulsating Dulcineas who didn't know what "Iconoclast" meant, regarded him as an awful Iconoclast. And cynical? Mercy! When he stood up in a Front Room and Unfolded his MS., and swallowed the Peppermint Wafer and began to Bleat, no one in the World of Letters was safe. He would wallop Dickens and jounce Kipling and even take a side-swipe at Luella Prentiss Budd, who was the Poetess Laureate for the Ward in which he lived. Ever since his Stuff had been shot back by a Boston Editor with a Complimentary Note, he had billed himself as an Author and had been pointed out as such at more than one Chautauqua. Consequently his Views on Recent Fiction carried much weight with the Carries. He loved to pile the Fagots around a Best Seller and burn it to a Cinder, while the Girls past 30 years of Age sat in front of him and Shuddered. As for the Drama, he could spread a New York Success on the marble-top Table and dissect it until nothing was left but the Motif, and then he would heave that into the Waste Basket, thereby leaving the Stage in America flat on its back. And if you mentioned Georgie Cohan to him, the Foam would begin to fleck his Lips and he would go plumb Locoed.