anything, or are you likely ever to do anything worth while?"     

       Cuthbert hesitated.     

       "It's true," he said, "I didn't finish in the first ten in the Open, and I was knocked out in the semi-final of the Amateur, but I won the French Open last year."     

       "The—what?"     

       "The French Open Championship. Golf, you know."     

       "Golf! You waste all your time playing golf. I admire a man who is more spiritual, more intellectual."     

       A pang of jealousy rent Cuthbert's bosom.     

       "Like What's-his-name Devine?" he said, sullenly.     

       "Mr. Devine," replied Adeline, blushing faintly, "is going to be a great man. Already he has achieved much. The critics say that he is more Russian than any other young English writer."     

       "And is that good?"     

       "Of course it's good."     

       "I should have thought the wheeze would be to be more English than any other young English writer."     

       "Nonsense! Who wants an English writer to be English? You've got to be Russian or Spanish or something to be a real success. The mantle of the great Russians has descended on Mr. Devine."     

       "From what I've heard of Russians, I should hate to have that happen to me."     

       "There is no danger of that," said Adeline scornfully.     

       "Oh! Well, let me tell you that there is a lot more in me than you think."     

       "That might easily be so."     

       "You think I'm not spiritual and intellectual," said Cuthbert, deeply moved. "Very well. Tomorrow I join the Literary Society."     

       Even as he spoke the words his leg was itching to kick himself for being such a chump, but the sudden expression of pleasure on Adeline's face soothed him; and he went home that night with the feeling 

 Prev. P 7/173 next