In early July, Pidge made her first move since coming to New York. The spirit had gone out of the house in Harrow Street for her, with Miss Claes’ departure. She sent the boy-baby up into the country and took a room at the _Sennacherib_ in Gramercy Park, a step of which Rufe Melton strongly approved: “You were getting stale down there, Pan,” he said, one night when he came to dine. “The Village is all right for a novelty, but real New York hasn’t time for that sort of thing. I see you’re running Carver’s novel in the _P. S._ What did you get in on that for? Did he give it to you?” “Rather not. It cost real money.” “A hang-over from John Higgins’ desk?” “No, we took it after--after----” “Carver could never have slipped that over on you, Pan,” he broke in, “if you had lived uptown. But no, you never would listen to me, that a thing isn’t great because it’s nasty----” “You think it isn’t a successful serial?” “Not a chance----” There was truth in what he said. The new novel was rapidly unreeling in generous installments, without much gratifying noise from the readers. Rufe confided that he was doing a long story, and that Redge Walters was very much interested in it as a serial prospect. “What’s it on?” she asked. “Business,” said Rufe. “Shipping--grain--iron--packing-houses. Everybody’s panting for business since the War.” “Sounds American.” “Epic of the Great Lakes, Pan. Never knew what I was about, till now----” She was thinking of Amritsar--of the first Amritsar mail recently in from Richard Cobden, posted at Pondicherry, French India--of _hathis_ and her new _mahout_--of British bulletins, native documents, and Dicky’s own straight story of April 10th and 13th. It had been difficult for Pidge not to become too excited by all this. For the first time Dicky’s work had carried her off her feet. That had been days ago, and she had not altogether trusted her fiercely fresh enthusiasm, but it didn’t subside, and at the present minute, the epic of the Great Lakes sounded to her like a forlorn side show. Moreover, Dicky’s Amritsar story, about to be printed in _The Public Square_, took away most of the disappointment in that Carver’s novel hadn’t proved a powerful stimulus to circulation. “Its capital is Chicago,” Rufe further divulged about his book. “Funny how you have to get away from there to see that big town. All the years I lived in Chi--never got next to her, as I have since I came to New York.... Yes, it’s booming along. Haven’t been really right until just now, since I was gassed.” “I’m glad, Rufe.” “It’s got a _mahatma_ in it,” Rufe chuckled. “A what?” “What’s the matter with you, Pan?” “That word--from you!” “You look as if you’d seen the Dweller----” “The what, Rufe?” He chuckled again. “Didn’t know I’ve been going in for the occult, did you? Say Pan, there’s one fine thing about you. I never feel as if you could be disappointed in your Rufie.” “Why is that?” She was entirely off his trend.