heart. A book by someone named Santayana. Edith Sitwell's poems.
At Easter when red lacquer buds sound far slowQuarter-tones for the old dead Mikado,
Through avenues of lime-trees, where the windSounds like a chapeau chinois, shrill, unkind,—
The Dowager Queen, a curling Korin waveThat flows forever past a coral cave
Well, of course it was nice, but what did it mean? Unfortunately, she had finished The Saturday Evening Post on the train. She loved it, though when it was mentioned Christabel smiled and said she hadn't the least doubt it had splendid stories.
There was thick creamy paper in the desk, with the address in fat letters. She rather liked the idea of writing to some of her friends, Anna McHugh, or Hattie Nelson, just to impress them. "I am here with Christabel" But the green quill, when pulled from its tumbler of shot, proved to have no pen in it, and it wouldn't have helped if it had, as the green-
