Dr. Green was the only guest who had not arrived. He had no patients at this hour; indeed, he sat deliberately waiting until it drew near the time when Waltonville customarily served its ice-cream. Upon arriving he would take a sardonic delight in complimenting Dr. Scott upon the excellence of his product. He believed that every married man had his symbol of subjection, every Hercules his distaff. Dr. Scott's was an ice-cream freezer. His failure to arrive on time did not disturb any one, least of all his hostess. She established herself beside Utterly and looked up at him with an expression which had been used long ago with telling effect upon Dr. Scott, but which was now reserved for persons of greater brilliancy and promise. She asked leading questions, putting into practice for once the precept that it is more polite to let others talk than to talk one's self. What was being done in Boston in a literary way? She looked amazed, yet became immediately sympathetic when Utterly laughed at Boston. Such iconoclasm was daring and delightful. What, then, was doing in New York? Utterly answered at length. As he had discoursed to Eleanor Bent, so he now discoursed to Mrs. Scott and her guests, especially to Thomasina Davis. American literature, if such a thing as American literature could be said to exist, was in a parlous state. America had never done much of importance. There were, of course, Poe and Whitman, but-- "But Longfellow!" cried Mrs. Scott. Utterly laughed. "A few sonnets! You don't take Longfellow seriously, my dear Mrs. Scott." Up to this moment Mrs. Scott had taken Longfellow very seriously indeed. "And Bryant! And Whittier!" she cried in more explosive tones. "'Thanatopsis,' Mr. Utterly! And 'Snow-Bound'!" "The feeble expression of a little talent at peace with itself and the world." "Oh, naughty, naughty!" cried Mrs. Scott, playfully. "You astonish me!" She looked about at her neighbors as if to say, "Oh, see what I've got!"