Down in the depths of his masculine soul, Wilbur Edes had a sense of amused toleration when women's clubs were concerned, but he always took his Margaret seriously, and the Zenith Club on that account was that night an important and grave organisation.

He wished very much to smoke and he was wedged into an uncomfortable corner with a young girl who insisted upon talking to him and was all the time nervously rearranging her hair, but he had a good view of his Margaret in her wonderful blue gown, in her silver chair, and he was consoled.
"Have you read _The Poor Lady_ ?" asked spasmodically the girl, and drove in a slipping hair-pin at the same time.
"I never read novels," replied Wilbur absently, "haven't much time you know." "Oh, I suppose not, but that is such a wonderful book and only think, nobody has the least idea who wrote it, and it does make it so interesting.

I thought myself it was written by Wilbur Jack until I came to a sentence which I could quite understand and that put him out of the question.

Of course, Wilbur Jack is such a great genius that no young girl like myself pretends to understand him, but that is why I worship him.

I tell Mamma I think he is the ideal writer for young girls, so elevating.