you?" she asked with curiosity. "For I find him
decidedly depressing."

"Then if it isn't Perry I demand the name," per-
sisted Adams gayly, "though I'm perfectly ready to
wager that it's Arnold Kemper."

" Kemper," repeated Laura curiously, as if the name
arrested her almost against her will. "Wasn't there
a little novel once by an Arnold Kemper--a slight
but striking thing with very little grammar and a
great deal of audacity?"

"Oh, that was done in his early days," replied
Adams, "as a kind of outlet to the energy he now
expends in racing motors. I asked Funsten, who
does our literary notices, if there was any chance
for him again in fiction, and he answered that the
only favourable thing he could say of him was to say
nothing."

"But he's gone in for automobiles now," said
Gerty, "they're so much bigger, after all, he thinks,
than books."

"I haven't seen him for fifteen years," remarked
Adams, "but I recognise his speech."

"One always recognises his speeches," admitted
Gerty, "there's a stamp on them, I suppose, for
somehow he himself is great even if his career isn't--
and, after all," she concluded seriously, "it is--what
shall I call it--the personal quantity that he insists
on."

"The personal quantity," repeated Laura laughing,
and, as if the description of Kemper had failed to
interest her, she turned the conversation upon the
subject of Trent's play.

-19-