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ourage me, Suzanna. I'd thought it rotten. What are you working at?" "I've just finished a paper on John Dewey for the _Atlantic_. I was so proud when Witt said he hadn't a criticism to make. I'm on a review for the _Yale_ now; and the new _Century_ has asked me for a psychological analysis of the Younger Generation. I'm going to compare our post-war product with all that is known of young people and their manifestations straight back to the Stone Age. I've made a specialty of the subject. Witt has helped me a lot in research. D'you think he's gone off?" "Gone off? Certainly not. Every columnist in town had something to say about that last installment of his novel. Best thing he's ever done, and that's saying all. He's strong as an ox, too. Why in heaven's name should he go off?" "Well, baby's teething and won't let any one else hold her when she gets a fretting spell. He's been up a lot lately." Clavering burst into a loud delighted laugh. He had forgotten his personal affairs completely, as he always did when talking to this remarkable little paradox. "Gad! That's good! And his public visualizes him as a sort of Buddha, brooding cross-legged in his library, receiving direct advice from the god of fiction. . . . But I wouldn't have you otherwise. The nineteenth century bluestocking with twentieth century trimmings. . . . What now?" Rollo Landers Todd, the "Poet of Manhattan," had stalked in with a Prussian helmet on his head, his girth draped in a rich blue shawl embroidered and fringed with white, a bitter frown on his jovial round face; and in his hand a long rod with a large blue bow on the metal point designed to shut refractory windows. Helen Vane Baker, a contribution from Society to the art of fiction, with flowing hair and arrayed in a long nightgown over her dress, fortunately white, was assisted to the top of the bookcase on the west wall. Henry Church, a famous satirist, muffled in a fur cloak, a small black silk handkerchief pinned about his lively face, stumped heavily into the room, fell in a heap on the floor against the opposite wall, and in a magnificent bass growled out the resentment of Ortrud, while a rising but not yet prosilient pianist, with a long blonde wig from Miss Dwight's property chest, threw his head back, shook his hands, adjusted a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and banged out the prelude to _Lohengrin_ with amazing variations. Elsa, with her pr
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