'No--hardly. I've thought of some more. There'll be fifteen or twenty altogether. I just thought of one, coming over here. Think I'll call it. _The Story of the Man from Jerusalem_. It's about the life of a little Jew storekeeper in a town like this. Struck me all of a sudden--you know, how he must feel. I don't think I'll write it to-night--just make a few notes so it won't get away from me.' Bob McGibbon rose up, put on coat and hat, took, Henry firmly by the arm, and marched him, protesting, home. 'Now,' he said, 'you go to bed.' 'Sure, Bob! What's the matter with you! I'm just going to jot down a few notes------' 'You're going to bed!' said McGibbon. And he stood there, earnest, even grim, until Henry was undressed and stretched out peacefully asleep.' Henry slept until nearly three o'clock Saturday afternoon. 8 Senator Watt laid down the _Gleaner_, took off his glasses, removed an unlighted cigar from his mouth, and said, in his low, slightly husky voice:-- 'A really remarkable piece of work. Quite worthy of Kipling.' The nineties, as we have already remarked, belong to Kipling. Outright. He had to be mentioned. 'It is fresh, vivid, and remarkably condensed. The author produces his effects with a sure swift stroke of the brush.' The Senator rarely spoke. When he did it was always in these measured, solid sentences, as if his words might be heard round the world and therefore must be chosen with infinite care. After delivering himself of this opinion he resumed his 'dry smoke' and reached for the _Evening Post_, which lay folded back to the financial page. 'I was sure you would think so,' said Cicely Hamlin, glancing first at the Senator then at her aunt. 'I wish you would read it, Aunt Eleanor.' 'Hm!' remarked that formidable person, planting her own gold-rimmed glasses firmly astride her rugged nose just above the point where it bent sharply downward, picking up the paper, then lowering it to gaze with a hint of habitual, impersonal severity at her niece. 'Even so,' she said. 'Suppose the young man has gifts. That will hardly make it necessary for you to cultivate him. I gather he's a bad lot.' 'I have no intention of cultivating him,' replied Cicely, moving toward the door, but pausing by the mantel to pat her dark ample hair into place. She wore it low on her shapely neck. Cicely was wearing a simple-appearing, far from inexpensive blue frock. Madame Watt read the opening sentence of _The Caliph of Simpson Street_, then lowered the paper again. 'Are you going out, Cicely?' 'No, I expect company here.' 'Who is coming?' The girl compressed her lips for an instant, then:-- 'Elberforce Jenkins.' 'Hm!' said Madame, and raised the paper. An electric bell rang. Cicely came back into the room; stood by a large bowl of roses; considered them. The butler passed through the wide hall. A voice sounded in the distance. The butler appeared. 'Mr Henry Calverly calling,' he said.