“Oh, but the cheaper magazines will all be after you . . . Huh? now that the Century. . . .”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that. The cheaper magazines have a grand conceit of themselves, you see. They affect to look upon the Century as a back number.”
“All the best people read the Century!”
“Unfortunately there are so many more people of the other kind!”
Later, at the table, Aunt May said with a casual air—but her hazy grey eyes were intent upon her thought: “Wilfred, now that you are becoming known . . . Huh? . . . you ought to . . . Do sit up straight in your chair! . . . you ought to go about more . . . !”
“Why, I circulate like a dollar bill!” said Wilfred. “I am worn and greasy with handling.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be vulgar!”
“Seriously, I have dozens of friends now.”
“Oh, South Washington Square!”
“I’m known as far North as Fifty-Ninth street. The Fifty-Ninth street crowd of artists and writers are most respectable. They sell their work, too. I know Walter Sherman, and Louis Sala and Frances Mary Lore. Miss Lore is a special friend of mine.”