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Updated: June 5, 2025
"My dear fellow," said Van Sweller, politely, but with a stubborn tightening of his lips, "I'm sorry it doesn't please you, but there's no help for it. Even a character in a story has rights that an author cannot ignore. The hero of a story of New York social life must dine at at least once during its action." "'Must," I echoed, disdainfully; "why 'must'? Who demands it?"
If I go abroad I'll smuggle it back for you. You haven't got your ring yet, I don't suppose? Make him make it a ruby. That's ever so much sweller than that everlasting old diamond.
At about six o'clock in the afternoon Van Sweller fingered his watch, and flashed at me a brief look full of such shrewd cunning that I suspected him at once. "Time to dress for dinner, old man," he said, with exaggerated carelessness. "Very well," I answered, without giving him a clew to my suspicions; "I will go with you to your rooms and see that you do the thing properly.
"The magazine editors," answered Van Sweller, giving me a glance of significant warning. "But why?" I persisted. "To please subscribers around Kankakee, Ill.," said Van Sweller, without hesitation. "How do you know these things?" I inquired, with sudden suspicion. "You never came into existence until this morning. You are only a character in fiction, anyway. I, myself, created you.
I demeaned myself, and, as a barber, gave him a "smooth, dark face with its keen, frank eye, and firm jaw." Later on he looked in at the club and saw Freddy Vavasour, polo team captain, dawdling over grilled bone No. 1. "Dear old boy," began Van Sweller; but in an instant I had seized him by the collar and dragged him aside with the scantiest courtesy.
And I say what is this under the corner of the carpet? Oh, a frying pan! I see clever idea! Fancy cooking over the gas! What larks it will be!" "Think of anything you could eat?" I asked; "try a chop, or what?" "Anything," said Van Sweller, enthusiastically, "except a grilled bone." Two weeks afterward the postman brought me a large, fat envelope.
She saw the humanity of all this mass none the less that they envied her position and spoke privily of "those snippy private secretaries that think they're so much sweller than the rest of us."
But it has been the usual thing, you know." This was my victory; but after Van Sweller emerged from his apartments in the "Beaujolie" I was vanquished in a dozen small but well-contested skirmishes. I allowed him a cigar; but routed him on the question of naming its brand. But he worsted me when I objected to giving him a "coat unmistakably English in its cut."
"He may enter," I said, with decision, "and only enter. Valets do not usually enter a room shouting college songs or with St. Vitus's dance in their faces; so the contrary may be assumed without fatuous or gratuitous asseveration." "I must ask you to pardon me," continued Van Sweller, gracefully, "for annoying you with questions, but some of your methods are a little new to me.
Could you not re-write the story, and inject into it the social atmosphere, and return it to us for further consideration? It is suggested to you that you have the hero, Van Sweller, drop in for luncheon or dinner once or twice at or at the which will be in line with the changes desired. Mr. PENNE . . . . . . An Author Miss LORE . . . . . . An Amanuensis SCENE Workroom of Mr.
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