“I don’t think much of that,” remarked Aunt May. “Putrid!” “Wilfred . . . !” “One is prepared for it,” said Wilfred like a long-suffering author. “He’s made my young lad look like a race track tout. Twenty years out of date. Why can’t these fellows look about them when they go into the streets? . . . However, it’s a Dugan, you see. That lends importance to the story. They paid more for that one picture than they did for the story.” “How unjust!” The placid, rosy Aunt Fanny came into the room. “Fanny!” cried her sister. “Wilfred’s story in the Century!” Aunt Fanny seized the magazine, and while her eyes fastened upon it, she held up her cheek sideways to be kissed. Said Aunt May with a thoughtful air: “Wilfred, how many of those could you . . . Huh? . . . About the same amount of writing as ten letters, I should say. And if you had nothing else to do. . . .” “Oh, but I have not your facility, Aunt May.” “Don’t try to be funny! . . . Say, two a month anyway. . . .” “It’s not how many you can write, but how many you can sell, my dear.” “Oh, but the cheaper magazines will all be after you . . . Huh? now that the Century. . . .” “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that. The cheaper magazines have a grand conceit of themselves, you see. They affect to look upon the Century as a back number.” “All the best people read the Century!” “Unfortunately there are so many more people of the other kind!” Later, at the table, Aunt May said with a casual air—but her hazy grey eyes were intent upon her thought: “Wilfred, now that you are becoming known . . . Huh? . . . you ought to . . . _Do_ sit up straight in your chair! . . . you ought to go about more . . . !” “Why, I circulate like a dollar bill!” said Wilfred. “I am worn and greasy with handling.” “I _wish_ you wouldn’t be vulgar!” “Seriously, I have dozens of friends now.” “Oh, South Washington Square!” “I’m known as far North as Fifty-Ninth street. The Fifty-Ninth street crowd of artists and writers are _most_ respectable. They sell their work, too. I know Walter Sherman, and Louis Sala and Frances Mary Lore. Miss Lore is a special friend of mine.” The two Aunts exchanged an anxious glance. “Lore?” said Aunt Fanny. “Who are her people . . . Huh? . . .” “Let me see,” said Wilfred, “her father was a letter carrier in Memphis. Or else he was the garbage collector. I forget.” “Wilfred!” “Well, it doesn’t signify, does it? Frances Mary stands on her own bottom.” “_Wilfred!_” “Oh, Aunt! I didn’t mean what you mean!” “Seriously, Wilfred,” said Aunt May, “you are twenty-six years old. . . .” “We should hate to see you marry on South Washington Square,” put in Aunt Fanny. Aunt May frowned at Aunt Fanny. This was too direct. Wilfred grinned at them both. An outrageous retort trembled on his tongue, but he bit it back. After all, they were dear old dears. And he was his own man now. “Well, thank God! that’s not an issue,” he said. “I don’t want to marry and I couldn’t if I did!”