“Wilfred . . . !”
“One is prepared for it,” said Wilfred like a long-suffering author. “He’s made my young lad look like a race track tout. Twenty years out of date. Why can’t these fellows look about them when they go into the streets? . . . However, it’s a Dugan, you see. That lends importance to the story. They paid more for that one picture than they did for the story.”
“How unjust!”
The placid, rosy Aunt Fanny came into the room.
“Fanny!” cried her sister. “Wilfred’s story in the Century!”
Aunt Fanny seized the magazine, and while her eyes fastened upon it, she held up her cheek sideways to be kissed.
Said Aunt May with a thoughtful air: “Wilfred, how many of those could you . . . Huh? . . . About the same amount of writing as ten letters, I should say. And if you had nothing else to do. . . .”
“Oh, but I have not your facility, Aunt May.”
“Don’t try to be funny! . . . Say, two a month anyway. . . .”
“It’s not how many you can write, but how many you can sell, my dear.”