could earn a million if it had a chance."

"I don't say 'no,'" said the Critic, yawning, "but it will never get a
chance. I burned the manuscript this morning, and now being delivered
of it, I have no more interest in it than a sparrow has in her last
year's offspring."

"The trouble with you is that you haven't any patience, any staying
power. That ought to have been a three volume novel. We would have
heard all about their first meeting, their first love, their
separation, his marriage, her _débuts_, etc., etc.," declared the
Journalist.

"Oh, thunder," said the Doctor. "I think there was quite enough of it.
Don't throw anything at me--I liked it--I liked it! Only I'm sorry she
died."

"So am I," said the Critic. "That really hurt me."

"Because," said the Doctor, shying away toward the door, "I should
have liked to know if the child turned out to be a genius. That kind
do sometimes," and he disappeared into the doorway.

"Anyhow," said the Critic, "I am going to wear laurels until some one
tells a better--and I'd like to know why the Journalist looks so
pensively thoughtful?"

"I am trying to recall who she was--Margaret Dillon."

"Don't fret--she may be a 'poor thing,' but she is all 'mine own'--a