already written a play worthy to stand beside Hamlet--but, though
she is a charming lady, I'm hardly convinced by her opinion. The
fact remains, however, that he is going to New York to become a
playwright, and that he has two idols in the market place which, I
fancy, you may be predestined to see demolished. He is simply off
his head to meet Roger Adams, the editor of _The_--something or
other I never heard of--and--remember your budding days and be
charitable--a lady who writes poems and signs herself Laura Wilde.
I prepared him for the inevitable catastrophe by assuring him that
the harmless Mr. Adams eats with his knife, and that the lady, as
she writes books, isn't worth much at love-making--the purpose for
which woman was created by God and cultivated by man. Alas, though,
the young are a people of great faith!

Commend me to Mrs. Bridewell, whom I haven't seen since I had the
honour of assisting at the wedding.

Yours ever,
BEVERLY PIERCE.

As she finished her reading, Gerty broke into a laugh and carelessly
threw the letter aside on the blue satin quilt.

"I'm glad to hear that somebody has read Laura's poems," she observed.

"But what in thunder am I to do with the chap?" enquired Perry. "God
knows I don't go in for literature, and that's all he's good for I dare
say."

"Oh, well, he can eat, I guess," commented Gerty, with consoling irony.