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"Things never happen in real life," she observed plaintively; "only ros work out But we people in real life, we just go on and on in a badly constructed, plotless sort of ith no villains, no interesting situations, no clirow old and irritable and estions, and we die in hopeless discord with the unity required in a dollar and a half novel by aus a

"But we don't live happy ever after Nobody ever had enough money in real life"

"So

"And they are not content, silly!"

"Why? Because nobody ever had enough love in real life," mocked Sylvia

"You have said it, child That is the malady of the world, and nobody knows it until some pretty ninny like you babbles the truth And that is e care for those immortals in roive enough of love; those ic shapes in verse and tale whose hearts are satisfied when the oes to dinner"

Sylvia laughed awhile, then, chin on wrist, satthere, muffled in her furs

"As for love, I think I should beA little--to flavour routine--would be sufficient for me I fancy"

"You know so much about it," observed Mrs Ferrall ironically

"I am permitted to speculate, am I not?"

"Certainly Only speculate in sound investments, dear"

"How can you make a sound investment in love? Isn't it always sheerest speculation?"

"Yes, that is why simple matrimony is usually a safer speculation than love"

"Yes, but--love isn't matrimony"

"Match that with its complementary platitude and you have the essence of modern fiction," observed Mrs Ferrall "Love is a subject talked to death, which explains the present shortage in the market I suppose You're not in love and you don't miss it Why cultivate an artificial taste for it? If it ever comes naturally, you'll be astonished at your capacity for it, and the constant deterioration in quantity and quality of the visible supply Goodness! e and the ill hue spills over on the fa

"Yes you are--and you go tearing away, back up, fur on end, leaving eing fur to co to comfort me"