.

"This is Mr. L----," one of the satellites now approached and explained
to the manager. "He's connected with M----'s Magazine. He does short
stories and dramatics occasionally."

The manager bowed. After all, M----'s Magazine had come to have some
significance on Broadway. It was as well to be civil. Courtesy was
extended for three, and they went in.

As for myself, I resented the mood and the change. It was in no way my
affair--his life was his own--and still I resented it. I did not believe
that he was as bad as he seemed. He had too much genuine sense. It was
just boyish swagger and show, and still it was time that he was getting
over that and settling down. I really hoped that time would modify all
this.

One thing that made me hope for the best was that very shortly after
this M----'s Magazine blew completely up, leaving him without that
semi-financial protection which I felt was doing him so much harm. The
next favorable sign that I observed was that a small volume of short
stories, some sixteen in number, and containing the cream of his work up
to that time, was brought to a publishing house with which I was
financially identified at the time, and although no word was said to me
(I really think he took great care not to see me), still it was left and
on my advice eventually published (it sold, I believe, a little under
five hundred copies). But the thing that cheered me was that it
contained not one story which could be looked upon as a compromise with
his first views. And better, it had been brought to the concern with
which I was connected--intentionally, I am sure. I was glad to have had
a hand in its publication. "At least," I said, "he has not lost sight of
his first ideal. He may go on now."

And thereafter, in one magazine and another, excellent enough to have
but a small circulation, I saw something of his which had genuine merit.
A Western critical journal began to publish a series of essays by him,
for which I am sure he received nothing at all. Again, three or four
years later, a second volume of stories, almost if not quite as good as
his first, was issued by this same Western paper. He was trying to do
serious work; but he still sought and apparently craved those grand
scenes on the farm or in some New York restaurant or an expensive
apartment, and when he could no longer afford it. He still wrote
happy-ending, or compromise, stories for any such magazine as would
receive him, and was appare