Take heed, for the sake of your soul,
Of the song that the city sings—
Of its bantering lip, and its bowl,
And its flutter of fallen wings.
John Hartley, "The Siren City."
These Lilliputian temptations—they remind us that the threads which kept Gulliver down were very small threads, but then there were so many of them!—"The Silver Poppy."
"How much space shall I give Miss Vaughan?" Hartley asked of his editor. It was the end of the day following the interview, and the gentleman addressed was enjoying what he called a dry smoke, contentedly chewing a black cigar-end into obviously delectable rags and shreds. He allowed his questioner to wait for a minute or two before answering.
"Who's Miss Vaughan?"
Just who that lady was he knew quite well, but he took a secret delight in baiting his probationers—and Hartley above all others.
"She is the lady," and the irate young man laid particular stress on the word, "the lady whom I suggested to you as being more or less before the public, as you may recall—the lady who wrote The Silver Poppy, and——"
"Yes, I know all that. 'Bout how much time did you give her yesterday? The whole afternoon, I guess, wasn't it?"
"I don't see what that has to do with my question," retorted Hartley.