“I am sorry I cannot use that poem,” he said, “but I am afraid it is impossible. It has decided merit, and, in view of the awful stuff we are obliged to publish, it would be a welcome addition to our pages. I don’t mind the strength of the poem or the plot; you have made your meaning artistically obscure. But there is one word in it which would make it too strong meat for the readers of this magazine. I refer to the word ‘naked.’ It is quite true that the adjective ‘naked’ is used in conjunction with the noun ‘skies;’ but the word itself is highly objectionable. I have been trying to find a way out of the difficulty. I substituted the word ‘nude,’ but that spoils the meter, you see. Then I sought the dictionary.” He opened a dictionary that stood on a revolving stand beside him, and read aloud: “‘Naked—uncovered; unclothed; nude; bare; open; defenseless; plain; mere.’ None of these will answer the purpose, you see. They are either too short or too long; and ‘open’ does not convey the idea. I am really afraid that nothing can be done. Suppose you try something else and be more careful with your vocabulary. I trust you catch my idea, because I am really quite interested in your work. It is like the fresh breeze of spring when it is not”—here he laughed—“the torrid breath of the simoon. I have read some of your other verse, you see.” “I think I understand you,” said Hermia, leaning forward and gazing reflectively at him. “Manner is everything. Matter is a creature whose limbs may be of wood, whose joints may be sapless; so long as he is covered by a first-class tailor he is a being to strut proudly down to posterity. Or, for the sake of variety, which has its value, the creature may change his sex and become a pink-cheeked, flax-haired, blue-eyed doll. Hang upon her garments cut by an unconventional hand, looped eccentrically and draped artistically, and the poor little doll knows not herself from her clothes. Have I gazed understandingly upon the works of the literary clock?” The editor threw back his head and laughed aloud. “You are very clever,” he exclaimed, “but I am afraid your estimate of us is as correct as it is flattering. We are a set of cowards, but we should be bankrupt if we were not.” Hermia took the manuscript he had extracted from a drawer, and rose. “At all events you were charitable to read my verses,” she said, “and more than good to attempt their re-form.” The editor stood up also. “Oh, do not mention it,” he said, “and write me something else—something equally impassioned but quite irreproachable. Aside from the defect I mentioned, there were one or two verses which I should have been obliged to omit.”