“Of course we respect Daphne,” he said grudgingly. “For five years she has made her living writing poetry—POETRY—and how many can say as much? No bribes of the corset makers for limerick advertisements ever tempted her, but now she has sensibly surrendered in favor of marrying one Oscar Human, Indiana plumber at large. The only remarkable thing about it is that Oscar Human would marry a failure poetess who must have forgotten how to cook a boiled dinner or be interested in the new style nickel fittings! Well, luck to Daphne Rhodes, but what good was it all? A starved, embittered space filler, she admitted, soothing a makeup man’s difficulties by rounding out the page with a plump sonnet.” Ernestine walked over to the mantel in order to look as majestic as possible, so Hobart called out. She was very lovely in her crystal colored satin with silvery panels and those interesting, homely hands of hers clasped awkwardly. “You do love fleshpots, Caleb, no matter whether an Indiana plumber or an editor bestows them. You’ll have Daphne taking orders for your next novel, I dare say—a premium with every new kitchen sink Oscar installs! You wretch! I’ve no doubt Daphne is going to be happy, at least her experience as a poetess will mercifully teach her never to let this Oscar know how commonplace he is. Therein will lie the success of the union. As soon as Polly comes, we’ll decide on the wedding present. For my part, I think Daphne has done a brave thing to hold to the best in herself, and, when she saw she was unable to attain her goal, to drop back gracefully into the house-and-garden rank and file.” Caleb shrugged his shoulders. “Well, long ago I became tired of being a literary chameleon and trying to match up every editor’s bark! I found out what the reading public wanted and I have given it to them—great hunks of it! I haven’t come out so badly, eh? Now, Daphne could have done the same.” He leaned back in his chair looking defiantly at Ernestine. “You are trying to make me the man in the divorce case; his wife took the furniture and the five children and he took the blame. But I challenge you, Caleb, to prove that you have ever really written a good story—a story you felt and loved and were willing to fight for until it was printed.” “You’ve never gone through my attic trunks,” he reminded. “Besides, the public doesn’t like highbrow stories. They like stories about people who are capable of wearing pink underwear, and a villain must be a villain if found carrying a riding crop. Just when I am settled in my mind concerning my next heroine, Ernestine breaks out with uplift, as annoying as to have a motor stuffed with relatives drive up to the door at dinner time,” he informed Hobart. “Can’t you lend a hand?” “How can I, when I want to stay friends with you both? By Jove, there’s the bell; they’ve arrived.” Ernestine blew Caleb a kiss and murmured, “If one cannot write _au naturel_, I presume it must be _au gratin_!”