"I paid for it myself. I pay for all my gowns, as I think it consistent, but I can't afford the expensive dressmakers yet. At least I think I've paid for it. Witt says I haven't and that he expects a collector any day. But I must have, because I told her to send the bill at once so that it wouldn't get lost among all the other bills on the first of the month. Your column's been simply spiffing lately. Full of fire and go, but rather--what shall I call it--explosive? What's happened, Clavey?" "Good of you to encourage me, Suzanna. I'd thought it rotten. What are you working at?" "I've just finished a paper on John Dewey for the _Atlantic_. I was so proud when Witt said he hadn't a criticism to make. I'm on a review for the _Yale_ now; and the new _Century_ has asked me for a psychological analysis of the Younger Generation. I'm going to compare our post-war product with all that is known of young people and their manifestations straight back to the Stone Age. I've made a specialty of the subject. Witt has helped me a lot in research. D'you think he's gone off?" "Gone off? Certainly not. Every columnist in town had something to say about that last installment of his novel. Best thing he's ever done, and that's saying all. He's strong as an ox, too. Why in heaven's name should he go off?" "Well, baby's teething and won't let any one else hold her when she gets a fretting spell. He's been up a lot lately." Clavering burst into a loud delighted laugh. He had forgotten his personal affairs completely, as he always did when talking to this remarkable little paradox. "Gad! That's good! And his public visualizes him as a sort of Buddha, brooding cross-legged in his library, receiving direct advice from the god of fiction. . . . But I wouldn't have you otherwise. The nineteenth century bluestocking with twentieth century trimmings. . . . What now?"