The quite informal affair was the first of many quite as informally formal. Also Mrs. Fosdick's satellites and friends of the literary clubs and the war work societies seized the opportunity to make much of the heroic author of The Lances of Dawn. His society was requested at teas, at afternoon as well as evening gatherings. He would have refused most of these invitations, but Madeline and her mother seemed to take his acceptance for granted; in fact, they accepted for him. A ghastly habit developed of asking him to read a few of his own poems on these occasions. “PLEASE, Mr. Speranza. It will be such a treat, and such an HONOR.” Usually a particular request was made that he read “The Greater Love.” Now “The Greater Love” was the poem which, written in those rapturous days when he and Madeline first became aware of their mutual adoration, was refused by one editor as a “trifle too syrupy.” To read that sticky effusion over and over again became a torment. There were occasions when if a man had referred to “The Greater Love,” its author might have howled profanely and offered bodily violence. But no men ever did refer to “The Greater Love.” On one occasion when a sentimental matron and her gushing daughter had begged to know if he did not himself adore that poem, if he did not consider it the best he had ever written, he had answered frankly. He was satiated with cake and tea and compliments that evening and recklessly truthful. “You really wish to know my opinion of that poem?” he asked. Indeed and indeed they really wished to knew just that thing. “Well, then, I think it's rot,” he declared. “I loathe it.” Of course mother and daughter were indignant. Their comments reached Madeline's ear. She took him to task. “But why did you say it?” she demanded. “You know you don't mean it.” “Yes, I do mean it. It IS rot. Lots of the stuff in that book of mine is rot. I did not think so once, but I do now. If I had the book to make over again, that sort wouldn't be included.” She looked at him for a moment as if studying a problem. “I don't understand you sometimes,” she said slowly. “You are different. And I think what you said to Mrs. Bacon and Marian was very rude.” Later when he went to look for her he found her seated with Captain Blanchard in a corner. They were eating ices and, apparently, enjoying themselves. He did not disturb them. Instead he hunted up the offended Bacons and apologized for his outbreak. The apology, although graciously accepted, had rather wearisome consequences. Mrs. Bacon declared she knew that he had not really meant what he said.