“It’s a perfectly good word,” pouted Susy. “Prior used it.”
“Prior, yes, but not since,” said he. “It has had priority but not permanency. Obsolete, my dear—archaic. Begin again.”
“All right. How’s this?——”
I
“The moon—their tutelary orb——”
“Tutelary orb! Oh, dear!” groaned Nick. “Why don’t you say ‘chaste goddess of the night!’ ‘sweet regent of the heavens!’ ‘queen and huntress, chaste and fair!’ or something new like that? This is modern English prose, my dear Susy. Here, let me have the typewriter. I’ll show you how.”
I
Nick Lansing lived in a three-pair-back bed sitting-room. An industrious young man, he worked day and night. In the daytime he worked, writing part of a popular encyclopedia—V to X, a most depressing section of the alphabet. At night he worked his rich friends for dinners, the opera, drinks and cigars, a more agreeable job.
Susy Branch was also a prominent member of the I. W. W. She worked everybody, day and night, all the time, for everything—clothes, shoes, hats, board, lodging and laundry.
In spite of their industry, both were poor. Nick was poor as he could be—which, considering Nick’s capacity for poverty—is saying something. Susy was poorer than she could be—and be satisfied—which, considering her tastes and appetites, isn’t saying so much. Still, the fact is she hadn’t a red—outside of her vanity-case.