trying to come forward in politics.
He owns shares in everything but the United States Senate--gas,
electricity, railroads, aldermen, newspapers--and now he would like some
Senate. That's what I think."

She did not quite understand, and she was far from knowing that this
cynic humor expressed a deadlier pessimism than her father's fiercest
accusals of the country. "How fascinating it is!" she said, innocently.

"And I suppose they all envy your coming out?"

"In the office?"

"Yes. I should envy, them--staying."

Burnamy laughed. "I don't believe they envy me. It won't be all roses
for me--they know that. But they know that I can take care of myself if
it isn't." He remembered something one of his friends in the office
had said of the painful surprise the Bird of Prey would feel if he ever
tried his beak on him in the belief that he was soft.

She abruptly left the mere personal question. "And which would you
rather write: poems or those kind of sketches?"

"I don't know," said Burnamy, willing to talk of himself on any terms.
"I suppose that prose is the thing for our time, rather more; but there
are things you can't say in prose. I used to write a great deal of verse
in college; but I didn't have much luck with editors till Mr. March took
this little piece for 'Every Other Week'."

"Little? I thought it was a long poem!"

Burnamy laughed at the notion. "It's only eight lines."

"Oh!" said the girl. "What is it about?"

He yielded to the temptation with a weakness which he found incredible
in a person of his make. "I can repeat it if you won't give me away to
Mrs. March."

"Oh, no indeed! He said the lines over to her very simply and well. They
are beautiful--beautiful!"

"Do you think so?" he gasped, in his joy at her praise.

"Yes, lovely. Do you know, you are the first literary man--the only
literary man--I ever talked with. They must go out--somewhere! Papa must
meet them at his clubs. But I never do; and so I'm making the most of
you."

"You can't make too much of me, Miss Triscoe," said Burnamy.

She would not mind his mocking. "That day you spoke about 'The Maiden
Knight', don't you know, I had never heard any talk about books in that
way. I didn't know you were an author then."

"Well, I'm not much of an author now," he said, cynically, to retrieve
his folly in repeating his poem to her.

"Oh, that will do for you to say. But I know what Mrs. March thinks."

He wished very much to know