“But it _was_ delightful, Mr. Billett--I love talking about myself and you were really very sweet to listen so nicely.” She has definitely risen. Ted must, too. “We must do it again some time soon--I'm going to see if there aren't any of those books with long German names drifting around 'Mode' somewhere so that I'll be able to simply stun you with my erudition the next time we talk over dreams.” They are at the door now, she guiding him toward it as imperceptibly and skillfully as if she controlled him by wireless. “And it isn't fair of me to let you give all the parties--it simply isn't. Couldn't you come up to dinner in my little apartment sometime--it really isn't unconventional, especially for anyone who's once seen my pattern of an English maid--” Sunlight and Minetta Lane again--and whatever Ted may want to say out of his walking trance--this is certainly no place where any of it can be said. XII Oliver Crowe, at his desk in the copy-department of Vanamee and Co.'s, has been spending most of the afternoon twiddling pencils and reading and rereading two letters out of his pocket instead of righteously thinking up layouts for the new United Steel Frame Pulley Campaign. He realizes that the layouts are important--that has been brought to his attention already by several pink memoranda from Mr. Délier, the head of the department--but an immense distaste for all things in general and advertising in particular has overwhelmed him all day. He looks around the big, brightly lighted room with a stupefied sort of loathing--advertising does not suit him--he is doing all he can at it because of Nancy--but he simply does not seem to get the hang of the thing even after eight months odd and he is conscious of the fact that the Powers that be are already looking at him with distrustful eyes, in spite of his occasional flashes of brilliance. If he could only get _out_ of it--get into something where his particular kind of mind and training would be useful--oh well--he grunts and turns back to his private affairs. The letter from Easten of Columbiac Magazines--kindly enough--but all hope of selling the serial rights of his novel gone glimmering because of it--Easten was the last chance, the last and the best. “If you could see your way to making short stories out of the incidents I have named, I should be very much interested--” but even so, two short stories won't bring in enough to marry on, even if he can do them to Easten's satisfaction--and the novel couldn't come out as a book now till late spring--and Oliver has too many friends who dabble in writing to have any more confidence in book royalties than he would have in systems for beating the bank at roulette. Well, _that's_ over--and a year's work with it--and all the dreams he and Nancy had of getting married at once.