e names. When she went out, the Young Prince, sitting
by the window with his pencil behind his ear and his feet on the table,
said: "I bet she can make the grandest fudge!" "And such lovely angel
food," put in Miss Larrabee, who was busy writing up the Epworth League
convention.

Miss Bolton's name was always among the lists we printed of the guests
at the Entre Nous Card Club, the Imperial Dancing Club, the "Giddy Young
Things" Club, the Art Club and the Shakespeare Club. But when she came
to the office she was full of anxiety at the frivolity of society. She
said that she so longed for intellectual companionship that she felt
sometimes as if she must fly to a place where she could find a soul that
would feel in unison with the infinite that thrilled her being. Far be
it from her to wish to coin the pulsations of her soul, but papa and
mamma did need her help so. She accented papa and mamma on the last
syllable and leaned forward and looked upward like a shirtwaist Madonna.
But writing locals someway didn't appeal to her. She wondered if we
could use a serial story. And then she went on: "Oh, I have some of the
sweetest things in my head! I know I could write them. They just tingle
through my blood like wine. I know I could write them--such sublime
things--but when I sit down to put them on paper something always comes
up that prevents my going on with them. There are dozens whirling
through my brain begging to be written. There is one about the earl who
has imprisoned the young princess in a dungeon, and her lover, a knight
of the cross, comes home from a crusade and is put in the cell next to
her. A bird that she has been feeding through her prison window takes a
lock of her golden hair to the window where her lover is looking out
across the beautiful world, not knowing that she, too, has fallen into
the earl's clutches. And, oh, yes! there is another about Cornelia who
lived in a moated tower, and all the dukes and lords and kings in the
land had laid suit to her hand, and she could find none who came up to
her highest ideal, so she set them a task--and, oh, a lot more about
what they did; I haven't thought that out--but anyway she married the
red duke Wolfang who spurned her task and took her by night with his
retainers away from the tower, saying her love was his Holy Grail and to
get her was the object of his pilgrimage. Oh, it's just grand."

No, we don't use serials and when we do we buy them in stereotyped
pl