oftening into a smile: 'However, alertness and daring, my young friend,
are good qualities, especially when crowned with success. If the
Austrians had once succeeded in planting a battery on that hill it might
have been difficult to dislodge them. Perhaps, under the circumstances,
His Majesty may overlook your indiscretion.'

"'His Majesty not only overlooked it, but bestowed upon me the Iron
Cross,' concluded my friend. 'For the credit of the army, I judged it
better to keep quiet and take it. But, as you can understand, the sight
of it does not recall very pleasurable reflections.'"

* * * * *

To return to my diary, I see that on November 14th we held another
meeting. But at this there were present only "Jephson, MacShaughnassy,
and Self"; and of Brown's name I find henceforth no further trace. On
Christmas eve we three met again, and my notes inform me that
MacShaughnassy brewed some whiskey-punch, according to a recipe of his
own, a record suggestive of a sad Christmas for all three of us. No
particular business appears to have been accomplished on either occasion.

Then there is a break until February 8th, and the assemblage has shrunk
to "Jephson and Self." With a final flicker, as of a dying candle, my
diary at this point, however, grows luminous, shedding much light upon
that evening's conversation.

Our talk seems to have been of many things--of most things, in fact,
except our novel. Among other subjects we spoke of literature generally.

"I am tired of this eternal cackle about books," said Jephson; "these
columns of criticism to every line of writing; these endless books about
books; these shrill praises and shrill denunciations; this silly worship
of novelist Tom; this silly hate of poet Dick; this silly squabbling over
playwright Harry. There is no soberness, no sense in it all. One would
think, to listen to the High Priests of Culture, that man was made for
literature, not literature for man. Thought existed before the Printing
Press; and the men who wrote the best hundred books never read them.
Books have their place in the world, but they are not its purpose. They
are things side by side with beef and mutton, the scent of the sea, the
touch of a hand, the memory of a hope, and all the other items in the sum-
total of our three-score years and ten. Yet we speak of them as though
they were the voice of Life instead of merely its faint echo. Tales are
delightful _as_ tales--sweet as pr