1.

　　"They tell me . . . I am told . . . I am informed . . . No, onemoment, Miss Frisby."Mrs Peagrim wrinkled her fair forehead. It has been truly said thatthere is no agony like the agony of literary composition, and Mrs.

　　Peagrim was having rather a bad time getting the requisite snap andginger into her latest communication to the press. She bit her lip,and would have passed her twitching fingers restlessly through herhair but for the thought of the damage which such an action must doto her coiffure. Miss Frisby, her secretary, an anaemic and negativeyoung woman, waited patiently, pad on knee, and tapped her teeth withher pencil.

　　"Please do not make that tapping noise, Miss Frisby," said thesufferer querulously. "I cannot think. Otie, dear, can't you suggesta good phrase? You ought to be able to, being an author."Mr Pilkington, who was strewn over an arm-chair by the window, awokefrom his meditations, which, to judge from the furrow just above thebridge of his tortoiseshell spectacles and the droop of his weakchin, were not pleasant. It was the morning after the production of"The Rose of America," and he had passed a sleepless night, thinkingof the harsh words he had said to Jill. Could she ever forgive him?

　　Would she have the generosity to realize that a man ought not to beheld accountable for what he says in the moment when he discoversthat he has been cheated, deceived, robbed,--in a word, hornswoggled?

　　He had been brooding on this all night, and he wanted to go onbrooding now. His aunt's question interrupted his train of thought.

　　"Eh?" he said vaguely, gaping.

　　"Oh, don't be so absent-minded!" snapped Mrs Peagrim, notunjustifiably annoyed. "I am trying to compose a paragraph for thepapers about our party tonight, and I can't get the right phrase . . .

　　Read what you've written, Miss Frisby."Miss Frisby, having turned a pale eye on the pothooks and twiddleysin her note-book, translated them in a pale voice.

　　"'Surely of all the leading hostesses in New York Society there canbe few more versatile than Mrs Waddlesleigh Peagrim. I am amazedevery time I go to her delightful home on West End Avenue to see thescope and variety of her circle of intimates. Here you will see anambassador with a fever . . .'""With a _what?_" demanded Mrs Peagrim sharply.

　　"'Fever,' I thought you said," replied Miss Frisby stolidly. "I wrote'fever'.""'Diva.' Do use your intelligence, my good girl. Go on.""'Here you will see an ambassador with a diva from the opera,exchanging the latest gossip from the chancelleries for intimate newsof the world behind the scenes. There, the author of the latest noveltalking literature to the newest debutante. Truly one may say thatMrs Peagrim has revived the saloon.'"Mrs Peagrim bit her lip.