“And amateurs,” said her husband. “It’s to be a professional paradise for men—no admittance except on business. No one who hasn’t had a picture on the line need apply. Special hell for minor poets. Crowns of glory may be had on application at the desk—fit not guaranteed in cases of swelled head—”
“Don’t be vulgar, Crowdie,” interrupted Griggs.
“Is ‘swelled head’ vulgar, Miss Lauderdale?” enquired the painter.
“It sounds like something horrid—mumps, or that sort of thing. What does it mean?”
“It means a bad case of conceit. It’s a good New York expression. I wonder you haven’t heard it. Go on about the professional persons, Griggs. I’m not half good enough to chaff you. I wish Frank Miner were here. He’s the literary man in the family.”
“Little Frank Miner—the brother of the three Miss Miners?” asked Griggs.
“Yes—looks a well-dressed cock sparrow—always in a good humour—don’t you know him?”
“Of course I do—the brother of the three Miss Miners,” said Griggs, meditatively. “Does he write? I didn’t know.” Crowdie laughed, and Hester smiled.
“Such is fame!” exclaimed Crowdie. “But then, literary men never seem to have heard of each other.”
“No,” answered Griggs. “By the bye, Crowdie, have you heard anything of Chang-Li-Ho lately?”