“I’ve made De--Miss Shevlin my heroine,” pursued Hawarden, scornfully disregarding Caine’s untimely flippancy. “But it’s hard to put a girl like her on paper the way one sees her in one’s mind. I wrote a poem about her once. _Harper’s Magazine_ accepted it.” He paused. Then, ridden by the demon of truth, added with reluctance, “They published it in fine print over toward the end. But,” more buoyantly, “I saw it copied afterward in no less than two papers.” “Why don’t you put Mr. Conover into a story, too?” suggested Letty, unwilling not to seem quite at home in so profound a literary discussion. “Wouldn’t he make a good character? He’s so--” “I’m afraid not,” decided the boy, judicially weighing his verdict. “He’s more of a _man_ than anyone else in all my experience. But he wouldn’t quite fit into a story, I’m afraid. You see, he lacks romance, for one thing. One could hardly fancy Caleb Conover in love. And then--unless you count this evening’s affair--I doubt if he was ever in an adventure of any sort in his life. His character, from a literary viewpoint, doesn’t lend itself to action or analysis. In making the study of human nature my hobby, I have--” “I see!” broke in Letty, almost sharply. “You are quite right. He would be impossible in a story--as he is in real life!” “I hardly think so,” demurred Caine. “Not impossible. Improbable, at worst. I am afraid a great many people in Granite will find that out before he is through.” They had reached the Standish home. Hawarden bade them goodnight at the door; declining Letty’s perfunctory invitation to come in. The evening was still young. But the lack of cordiality in Letty’s voice grated on his armor of youth. He reflected somewhat belatedly that she and Caine were engaged and that it was possible they might find themes even more alluring than literature to talk over, together. So, unwilling, he left them. Caine and Letty strolled slowly up the walk. The night was cool, for June. So, ignoring the lounging chairs on the veranda, they passed into the house. “This is one of the last evenings we can sit indoors,” commented Letty. “It’s hard to realize that summer is so near. I suppose this week will wind up the season. Everywhere else except in old-fashioned Granite, it must have ended weeks ago.” “Yes. We’re old-fashioned here in Granite,” said Caine, seating himself on the arm of the chair into which she had thrown herself. “I think somebody once left an 1860 calendar in this town, and we’ve all been living by it ever since. We’re like the scaly, finny Oldest Inhabitants in the poem, who dreamed away their lives in the coral grove, while a seven stanza storm roared across the ocean overhead. When the storm of progress cuts a little below the surface we Granite folk blink upward from our dreams in pained disapproval. I think that’s why we look askance at Conover. He represents--”