"Mercy, what undemocratic sentiments!" she cried. "The People, the poor dear People—what have they done?"

   "Everything. What haven't they done? One could forgive their being dirty and stupid and noisy and rude; one could forgive their ugliness, the ineffable banality of their faces, their goggle-eyes, their protruding teeth, their ungainly motions; but the trait one can't forgive is their venality. They're so mercenary. They're always thinking how much they can get out of you—everlastingly touching their hats and expecting you to put your hand in your pocket. Oh, no, believe me, there's no health in the People. Ground down under the iron heel of despotism, reduced to a condition of hopeless serfdom, I don't say that they might not develop redeeming virtues. But free, but sovereign, as they are in these days, they're everything that is squalid and sordid and offensive. Besides, they read such abominably bad literature."

   "In that particular they're curiously like the aristocracy, aren't they?" said she. "By-the-bye, when are you going to publish another book of poems?"

   "Apropos of bad literature?"

   "Not altogether bad. I rather like your poems."

   "So do I," said he. "It's useless to pretend that we haven't tastes in common."

   They were both silent for a bit. She looked at him oddly, an inscrutable little light flickering in her eyes. All at once she broke out with a merry trill of laughter.

   "What are you laughing at?" he demanded.

   "I'm hugely amused," she answered.

   "I wasn't I aware that I'd said anything especially good."

   "You're building better than you know. But if I am amused,

    you

   look ripe for tears. What is the matter?"

   "Every heart knows its own bitterness," he answered. "Don't pay the least attention to me. You mustn't let moodiness of mine cast a blight upon your high spirits."

   "No fear," she assured him. "There are pleasures that nothing can rob of their sweetness. Life is not all dust and ashes. There are bright spots."

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