an intellectual attachment," Ball corrected. "It is something spiritual and mental. I hardly need say to you, Mr. Armstrong, thatthat my regard for your wife is perfectly-perfectly pure."

"You mean what they call 'platonic'?"

"I suppose one might call it that -yes."

"And that is

all?" Armstrong asked.

"That's all," said Ball hurried

He

ly. "Now I must be going." rose partially from his chair.

"No," Armstrong said. "Not yet. I want to tell you why I love her."

"Really," said Ball with a nervous laugh, “I don't see that you are called upon to tell me about that. In fact I

"But I want to

tell you, though!"

the husband insisted.

Ball sat down

again.

"I don't love

her the way you "Not at all. In the

first place, there's nothing intellectual about it. I don't like intellectual women! They make me sick. Take those women we have around the office. And the authoresses-! Good Lord, Ball! I don't want any of that in mine! I never thought of Carrie as intellectual. I thought she was just normal, or,

if anything, a little under normal, mentally. Well, I love her for that.

"If she is intellectual, I hope she'll not let me see it. And from a business standpoint, Ball, I hope if you're that way, you'll cut it out during business hours. Of course I consider this talk confidential. I'm going to forget that you have admitted intellectuality. It is a bad quality in an editor, Ball. Very bad! The great thing in an editor today is a strong popular taste. However, that is by the way.. Let's see; what were we talking about? . . . Oh, yes, I was telling you why I love Carrie.

"Well.. You didn't even mention her looks. Now, there, to me, is her strong point. I think she is the prettiest, sweetest-looking girl I ever laid my eyes on. I like good-looking women. That's the reason I never have them around the office. As for Carrie, here, I can't look at her without wanting to kiss her. Ordinarily I wouldn't mention that, but I think the situation demands it. I want to show you, Ball, that I'm not going to interfere with you on the platonic end of the game, any more than the intellectual end."

Armstrong paused. Mrs. Armstrong and Ball were gazing at him with dazed and wondering eyes.

"Well?" he said affably. "Doesn't that clear it up?"

Ball gulped audibly. "What?" said Armstrong. "Nothing," said Ball. "I didn't speak." "Oh," said Armstrong. "Well, do you get me? . . . As I see it, you and I don't conflict on this love business at all. We love her in two different ways. As far as I'm concerned, you can go right ahead, so long as you're sure you're both on the intellectual and platonic plane and you are sure, aren't you?"

"Yes, indeed!" said Ball quickly. Armstrong looked at his wife. "Are you, Carrie?"

She nodded. "Our friendship," she said, "is based on a beautiful story. We have read it together. You will know what I mean when I tell you it is 'Lorette'!"

"Lorette?" repeated Armstrong blankly. "Our Letchwood serial, you know," Ball put in.

"Oh, that," said Armstrong. "I haven't read it."

His wife gasped. "Not read it?" she cried.

Armstrong shook his head. "No," he said. "I pay Shrimpton a lot of money to attend to things like that. I'll read it tonight, though, on account of what you say."

He looked at his watch and arose. "Now," he said, "if you'll excuse me, I'll go and dress. I'm speaking on 'The Modern Magazine' at the banquet of the Advertising League to-night." He moved toward Ball with outstretched hand.

Ball arose. Hastily he deposited upon a near-by table a small but heavy article which he had snatched up surreptitiously when Armstrong entered, and which had remained in his right hand throughout the interview. Only now did he become conscious of what it really was. It was a

bibelot.

The hand which Mr. Armstrong shook was somewhat damp and limp. Crossing over to where his wife sat, Armstrong bent and kissed her. He would have kissed her cheek had she not turned her lips to his. "You might get Ball to stop to dinner?" he suggested.

A slight sigh escaped her.

"Thanks!" put in Ball rapidly. "Thanks very much! But I must be running onreally." He crossed to Mrs. Armstrong with rapid steps and shook her hand. "Good night!" he said. In his haste he did not even call her Empress.

Mr. Armstrong had barely closed the door behind him, when Ball opened it again and made his exit. He left it open.

Mrs. Armstrong retired early, but she did not sleep. At two o'clock she arose from bed and made her way to her husband's room. Light showed through the crack beneath the door. She rapped.

"Come!"

She entered. Armstrong was reading in bed. Several issues of Armstrong's lay about him.

"Jim," she asked, "have you read 'Lorette'?"

"I've run through it. Why, dear? . . You ought to be asleep."

"What did you think of it?"

"People don't get enough exercise," he said.

"But the story?" she insisted.

"Well," said Armstrong, with a yawn. "Our circulation's pretty near a million now. I'm going to can this sex stuff!"

to us. Equally true, we had not the faintest idea how high-sided, flat-bottomed, dory-built POLLYWOG would behave in a blow or a sea, and no one could enlighten us-though our neighbors feared the worst. Furthermore, we could not guess the cost, but knew that whatever it might be it was certain to exceed all the money we had in the world.

What matter? Here was gay adventure. True vagabonds we should be and run away from winter to the warm Southland, dodging brazenly a season at a desk and all the discomforts of town.

The summer's tinkering had multiplied the cruising comforts of POLLYWOG throughout her entire fifteen by forty-five feet. The triangular stateroom in the very bow was commodious for the captain's wife and next

door to the galley, with cook-stove, ice-box, kitchen sink, and pantry shelves all within arm's length. The cabin was a surprisingly large living-room and dining-room, with one stateroom adjacent, the rest of it a wide open space with lounges and bunks along either side.

A bolt of golden-brown burlap had been turned into mattress upholstery, couch pillow-covers, and portières. Whether by daytime sunlight, evening lamps, or the blaze of the open fireplace stove, they always glowed cheerfulness. Book-shelves on the wall, great drawers under the couches, and a hidden closet or two gave storage space, while 'way aft in the triangular stern rested the little engine that would kick us along. The deck was big enough for steamer-chairs, and we knew how to stow ourselves and our gear without confusion or crowding. We were ready for anything.