"Very possibly," assented the Philosopher; "very possibly not.
There is much in reputation. Most poetry gets attributed to
Shakespeare."

"I entered a certain drawing-room about a week ago," I said. "'We
were just speaking about you,' exclaimed my hostess. 'Is not this
yours?' She pointed to an article in a certain magazine lying open
on the table. 'No,' I replied; 'one or two people have asked me
that same question. It seems to me rather an absurd article,' I
added. 'I cannot say I thought very much of it,' agreed my
hostess."

"I can't help it," said the Old Maid. "I shall always dislike a
girl who deliberately sells herself for money."

"But what else is there to sell herself for?" asked the Minor Poet.

"She should not sell herself at all," retorted the Old Maid, with
warmth. "She should give herself, for love."

"Are we not in danger of drifting into a difference of opinion
concerning the meaning of words merely?" replied the Minor Poet.
"We have all of us, I suppose, heard the story of the Jew clothier
remonstrated with by the Rabbi for doing business on the Sabbath.
'Doing bithness!' retorted the accused with indignation; 'you call
thelling a thuit like that for eighteen shillings doing bithness!
By, ith's tharity!' This 'love' for which the maiden gives herself-
-let us be a little more exact--does it not include, as a matter of
course, material more tangible? Would not the adored one look
somewhat astonished on discovering that, having given herself for