she alone had not read the book of which everybody was talking. Such was not Kennaston's idea of humor, or of wifely interest. But Kathleen dipped into the volume here and there; and she assuredly read all the newspaper-notices sent in by the clipping-bureau. These she considered with profound seriousness.
"I have been thinking—you ought to make a great deal out of your next novel," she said, one morning, over her grapefruit; and the former poet wondered why, in heaven's name, it should matter to her whether or not the marketing of his dreams earned money, when they had already a competence. But women were thus fashioned. . . .
"You ought to do something more up-to-date, though, Felix, something that deals with real life—"
"Ah, but I don't particularly care to write about a subject of which I am so totally ignorant, dear. Besides, it isn't for you to fleer and gibe at a masterpiece which you never read," he airily informed her.
"I am saving it up for next summer, Felix,
