into a
new flirtation, which is once in about three months, their style
changes, giving them a wonderful versatility of talent that, somehow,
dies out after awhile, as she grows old and homely."

"That is," says Dempster, laughing, "every time a literary lady of this
stamp changes her lover, she changes her style, too."

"Exactly," answers E. E., "and where she hasn't any good-natured lover
she retires into modest privacy till one comes along."

I just listened, holding my breath.

"What," says I, "does fraud and deception creep into the sacred
literature of our country? I cannot believe it."

"Can't you?" says E. E.; "but you have never been in Bohemia."

"No," says I, "that is a part of Europe that I hope to visit, but never
have. Is it a popular place for Americans?"

"Oh, wonderfully popular, for people who dash off things here and there,
write for this and that, and are willing to give half that they earn and
know to any adventurer that comes along, free gratis for nothing; or, on
occasion, sell reputation by the line, and for a price. Oh, Bohemia is a
splendid place for adventurers and adventuresses to forage in!"

"What!" says I, "genius sell itself?"

"Yes," says she, "and its readers, too."

"Cousin E. E.," says I, "you slander the grandest, the purest, the most
sublime people on the earth."

"Do I?" says she, nodding her head and laughing. "Wait and see."

"Remember--you are speaking of authors, the first and purest aristocracy
known to our free nation."

"No; I speak of would-be authors--guerillas in literature--men and women
of erratic ability, who adore inspiration and scorn work; for
authorship, I am told, and believe, requires the hardest work of any
calling in the world."

"I'm afraid it does," said I, drawing a long breath, "but then such work
brings its own prompt payment. The power to write is happiness in
itself."

"But what has this to do with Pleasure Bay?" says Dempster; "we mean to
go there--not to Bohemia."

"Just so," says I, a-tying on my bonnet.

We got into Dempster's carriage, and after a delightful drive, we came
down on the edge of a little bay, with green grass growing close down to
the shore, and great, tall trees clumped here and there all around it.

I was so charmed with the scenery that I didn't realize where we were
till the carriage stopped before a white house, with a long wooden stoop
in front, when we got out and walked right away down to the shore, where