When the green car stopped before the Old Folks’ Home I was in seraphic mood. I had bathed, donned clean linen and a Dutch-necked gown. The result was most soul-satisfying. My spirits rose unaccountably. Even the sight of Von Gerhard, looking troubled and distrait, did not quiet them. We darted away, out along the lake front, past the toll gate, to the bay road stretching its flawless length along the water’s side. It was alive with swift-moving motor cars swarming like twentieth-century pilgrims toward the mecca of cool breezes and comfort. There were proud limousines; comfortable family cars; trim little roadsters; noisy runabouts. Not a hoof-beat was to be heard. It was as though the horseless age had indeed descended upon the world. There was only a hum, a rush, a roar, as car after car swept on. Summer homes nestled among the trees near the lake. Through the branches one caught occasional gleams of silvery water. The rush of cool air fanned my hot forehead, tousled my hair, slid down between my collar and the back of my neck, and I was grandly content. “Even though you are going to sail away, and even though you have the grumps, and refuse to talk, and scowl like a jabberwock, this is an extremely nice world. You can’t spoil it.” “Behute!” Von Gerhard’s tone was solemn. “Would you be faintly interested in knowing that the book is finished?” “So? That is well. You were wearing yourself thin over it. It was then quickly perfected.” “Perfected!” I groaned. “I turn cold when I think of it. The last chapters got away from me completely. They lacked the punch.” Von Gerhard considered that a moment, as I wickedly had intended that he should. Then—“The punch? What is that then—the punch?” Obligingly I elucidated. “A book may be written in flawless style, with a plot, and a climax, and a lot of little side surprises. But if it lacks that peculiar and convincing quality poetically known as the punch, it might as well never have been written. It can never be a six-best-seller, neither will it live as a classic. You will never see it advertised on the book review page of the Saturday papers, nor will the man across the aisle in the street car be so absorbed in its contents that he will be taken past his corner.” Von Gerhard looked troubled. “But the literary value? Does that not enter—” “I don’t aim to contribute to the literary uplift,” I assured him. “All my life I have cherished two ambitions. One of them is to write a successful book, and the other to learn to whistle through my teeth—this way, you know, as the gallery gods do it. I am almost despairing of the whistle, but I still have hopes of the book.” Whereupon Von Gerhard, after a moment’s stiff surprise, gave vent to one of his heartwarming roars. “Thanks,” said I. “Now tell me the important news.”