Evening star., 1915-06-13

weakly to explain.
Il don't suppose thought so at first"
he admitted; "but after Id got it written
down it seemed true enough"
Lettia stared at him. He was the first
specimen of the kind that had come under
her observation.
"Do you mean that you can persuade
yourself into thinking something has hap
pened by just writing it?' she asked in
credulously.
Charles Henry nodded. Something
like that, he admitted. "Of course there's
always foundations; but by the time
I've added to it and made sob story"
"A what?' said Letitia.
"A sob story, repeated Charles Henry
Letitia pointed the paper at him. $50
you mean to say you dared make sob
story out of me?"
Charles Henry shook his head. at
wasn't you really he said. at was the
girl thought you were. OF course can
see now," he added politely, "that you
aren't the helpless person l thought
You're much older than imagined" he
added absently Already the artistic in
stinct was stirring within him, and he was
thinking of something.
Lettia should have been pleased, for
one of her principal grudges against the
article had been that humiliating "littlc
girl; but she wasn't She drew herself
up stiffly and looked down at him whore
he sat on the bottom step.
"I am professor in the university"
she said, "and l am, needless to say,
neither cold nor hungry She retired
ho, ,,cbf .1x,t t,fp hon hut
thought she turned and added, "Nlorc-
over, l write scientific articles, not poet
ry." Then she closed the door firmly and
finally with vicious little click which in
ferred that the interview was at an end
CHARLES HENRY sat on the bottom
step and considered the outside of her
door for a short space; then he absently
climbed the stairs and let himself into his
own room, where he sank into chair and
thoughtfully consumed a pipcful of to-
bacco, after which he knocked the ashes
out on the window sill and betook himself
to his typewriter. Charles Henry was
writing sob story.
Through the intervening space of hall
way and two doors Letitia heard the click
of the typewriter, and smiled maliciolsly
She was in the midst of an article for
Parkinson's, an article upon the psychol-
ogy of the modern journalist After time
the typewriter ceased to click, and Charles
Henry, pulling the last sheet from the ma
chine, settled back to pass judgment upon
his performance.
He agreed with himself that it was good,
very good; in fact it was away above his
usual average. 1t was neither story nor
a sketch, but something between the two.
the heart secrets of woman who was
two people, slender, shrinking, poetical
girl who tried to hide her real soul behind
a cold and repeling exterior. Somehow he
managed to picture shy, wistful little
creature, hidden within crust of good
sense shoes and horn-rimmed spectacles
OF course it wasn't true, he told himself
savagey. She probably hadn't feeling
in the world, and her youngness and pret-
tiness were the false part Of her, not the
shoes and spectaclcs. However, it made
a good story, too good for mere news
paper He really ought to try it on a
He'd change ii enough so that
the girl couldn't object; but with bit
more plot it ought to sell. AT this point
his eye fell upon the neglected steak. and