It might be imagined that a hotel full of authors would be sure to generate some flashes of disagreement, but, for a time at least, everything went on charmingly at Hotel Helicon. True enough, the name of the occupant of room 24 remained a vexatious secret which kept growing more and more absorbing as certain very cunningly devised schemes for its exposure were easily ; but even this gave the[19] gentleman a most excellent excuse for the ladies in regard to feminine curiosity and lack of generalship. Under the circumstances it was not to be expected that everybody should be guarded in the phrasing of speech, still so and good-humored was the nameless man and so engaging was his way of or turning aside every thrust, that he won favor. Little Mrs. Philpot, whose seven year old daughter (a bright and sweet little child) had become the pet of Hotel Helicon, was enthusiastic in her pursuit of the stranger’s name, and at last she hit upon a plan that promised success. She all to herself, like a high-school girl, instead of like a widow of thirty, as she certain victory.  
“Now do you think you can remember, dear?” she said to May, the child, after having explained over and over again what she wished her to do.
 
“Yeth,” said May, who lisped charmingly in the sweetest of child voices.
 
“Well, what must you say?”
 
“I muth thay: Pleathe write your—your——”
 
“Autograph.”
 
“Yeth, your au—to—graph in my album.”
 
“That’s right, autograph, autograph, don’t forget. Now let me hear you say it.”
 
“Pleathe write your autograph in my book.”
 
Mrs. Philpot caught the child to her breast and kissed it vigorously, and not long little May went to try the experiment.[20] She was armed with her mother’s autograph album. When she approached her victim he thought he never had seen so lovely a child. The mother had not spared pains to give most effect to the little thing’s delicate and appealing beauty by an arrangement of the shining gold hair and by the simplest but cunningest tricks of color and drapery.
 
With that bird-like shyness so winning in a really beautiful little girl, May walked up to the stranger and made a funny, hesitating courtesy. He looked at her askance, his smiling face shooting forth a ray of tenderness along with a gleam of shrewd suspicion, as he made out the album in her dimpled little hand.
 
“Good morning, little one,” he said cheerily. “Have you come to make a call?”
 
He held out both hands and looked so and good that she smiled until dimples just like her mother’s played over her cheeks and chin. Half sidewise she crept into his arms and held up the book.
 
“Pleathe write your photograph in my book,” she murmured.
 
He took her very gently on his knee, vigorously, his heavy shaking and coloring.
 
“Who told you to come?” he inquired, with a guilty cunning twinkle in his gray eyes.
 
“Mama told me,” was the prompt answer.
 
Again the man , and, between the shame he felt for having betrayed the child and delight at the success of his , he grew quite red in the face. He took the autograph album and turned its stiff, ragged-edged leaves, glancing at the names.
 
“Ah, this is your mama’s book, is it?” he went on.
 
“Yeth it is,” said May.
 
“And I must write my name in it?”
 
“No, your—your——”
 
“Well what?”
 
“I don’t ’member.”
 
He took from his pocket a stylographic pen and dashed a sign manual across a page.
 
While the ink was drying he tenderly kissed the child’s forehead and then rested his chin on her bright hair. He could hear the clack of balls and mallets and the creak of a lazy swing down below on the so-called lawn, and a hum of voices arose from the . He looked through the open window and saw, as in a dream, blue peaks set against a shining of sky with a wisp of vultures slowly wheeling about in a filmy, sheeny space.
 
“Mama said I muthn’t stay,” apologized the child, slipping down from his knee, which she had found uncomfortably short.
 
He pulled himself together from a state of revery and beamed upon her again with his cheerful smile.
 
She turned near the door and dropped another comical little courtesy, bobbing her curly head till her hair twinkled like a of starbeams[22] on a brook-ripple, then she away, book in hand.
 
Little Mrs. Philpot snatched the album from May, as she ran to her, and greedily the leaves in search of the new record, finding which she gazed at it while her face irradiated every shade of expression between sudden delight and utter perplexity. In fact she could not decipher the autograph, although the handwriting surely was not bad. as she naturally was to sharing her secret with her friends, curiosity at length prevailed and she sought help. Everybody in turn tried to make out the two short words, all in vain till Crane, by the poet’s subtle vision, cleared up the mystery, at least to his own satisfaction.
 
“Gaspard Dufour is the name,” he asserted, with considerable show of conscious superiority. “A Canadian, I think. In fact I imperfectly recall meeting him once at a dinner given by the Governor General to Lord Rosenthal at Quebec. He writes plays.”
 
“Another romance out of the whole cloth by the Bourbon æsthete!” whispered the critic. “There’s no such a Canadian as Gaspard Dufour, and besides the man’s a Westerner rather over-Bostonized. I can tell by his voice and his mixed manners.”
 
“But Mrs. Hope would know him,” suggested the person addressed. “She meets all the Hub literati, you know.”
 
“Literati!” the critic, putting an end to further discussion.
 
 
A few minutes later Mr. Gaspard Dufour came down and passed out of the hotel, taking his way into the nearest ravine. He wore a very short coat and a slouch hat. In his hand he carried a bundle of fishing-rod . A man of his build looks far from in such dress, at best; but nothing could have more sharply his absurd of appearance than the gait he assumed as he the steep place and passed out of sight, a fish basket bobbing beside him and a red kerchief shining around his throat.
 
Everybody looked at his neighbor and smiled . Now that they had discovered his name, the question arose: What had Gaspard Dufour ever done that he should be accorded the place of honor in Hotel Helicon. No one (save Crane, in a shadowy way) had ever heard of him before. No doubt they all felt a little twinge of ; but Dufour, disappearing down the ravine, had in some unaccountable way deepened his significance.
 
IV.
Everybody knows that a mountain hotel has no local color, no sympathy with its environment, no gift of making its guests feel that they are anywhere in particular. It is all very to be held aloft on the shoulder of a giant almost within reach of the sky; but the charm of the thing is not referable to any[24] definite, visible cause, such as one readily bases one’s love of the sea-side on, or such as accounts for our delight in the life of a great city. No matter how fine the effect of clouds and peaks and sky and , no matter how pure and exhilarating the air, or how blue the filmy deeps of distance, or how mossy the rocks, or how sweet the water, or how cool the wooded vales, the hotel stands there in an indefinite way, with no raison d’etre visible in its make-up, but with an obvious gleaming from its windows. One cannot one’s self at such a place as if born there. The situation demands—nay, exacts behavior somewhat special and peculiar. No lonely island in the sea is quite as and out of the world as the top of any mountain, nor can any amount of man’s effort in the least the individuality of mountain scenery so as to render those high places familiar or homelike or genuinely habitable. Delightful enough and fascinating enough all mountain hotels surely are; but the sensation that living in one of them induces is the romantic consciousness of being in a degree “out of space, out of time.” No doubt this feeling was heightened and in the case of the guests at Hotel Helicon who were enjoying the added novelty of entire freedom from the petty economies that usually dog the footsteps and haunt the very dreams of the average summer . At all events, they were mostly a light-hearted set given over to a[25] freedom of speech and action which would have them on any lower plane.
 
Scarcely had Gaspard Dufour passed beyond sight down the ravine in search of a trout-brook, than he became the subject of free discussion. Nothing strictly impolite was said about him; but everybody in some way expressed at everybody’s ignorance of a man whose importance was apparent and whose name and suggested to each one of them a half-recollection of having seen it in connection with some notable literary sensation.
 
“Is there a member of the French institute by the name of Dufour?” inquired R. Hobbs Lucas, the historian, thoughtfully knitting his heavy brows.
 
“I am sure not,” said Hartley Crane, “for I met most of the members when I was last at Paris and I do not recall the name.”
 
“There goes that Bourbon again,” muttered Laurens Peck, the critic; “if one should mention Xenophon, that fellow would claim a personal acquaintance with him!”
 
It was plain enough that Peck did not value Crane very highly, and Crane certainly treated Peck very coolly. Miss Moyne, however, was blissfully that she was the cause of this trouble, and for that matter the men themselves would have denied with indignant any thing of the kind. Both of them were stalwart and rather handsome, the Kentuckian dark and looking, the New Yorker fair, cool and willful in appearance. Miss Moyne had[26] been pleased with them both, without a special thought of either, whilst they were going rapidly into the worry and of love, with no care for anybody but her.
 
She was beautiful and good, sweet-voiced, gentle, more inclined to listen than to talk, and so she captivated everybody from the first.
 
“I think it would be quite interesting,” she said, “if it should turn out that Mr. Dufour is a genuine foreign author, like Tolstoï or Daudet or——”
 
“Realists, and nobody but realists,” interposed Mrs. Philpot; “why don’t you say Zola, and have done with it?”
 
“Well, Zola, then, if it must be,” Miss Moyne responded; “for, barring my American breeding and my Southern conservatism, I am nearly in sympathy with—no, not that exactly, but we are so timid. I should like to feel a change in the literary air.”
 
“Oh, you talk just as Arthur Selby writes in his critical papers. He’s all the time trying to prove that fiction is truth and that truth is fiction. He Zola’s and Dostoieffsky’s novels to the skies; but in his own novels he’s as and Puritanish as if he had been born on Plymouth Rock instead of on an Illinois prairie.”
 
“I wonder why he is not a guest here,” some one remarked. “I should have thought that our landlord would have had him at all hazards. Just now Selby is the[27] field of American fiction. In fact I think he claims the earth.”
 
“It is so easy to assume,” said Guilford Ferris, whose romances always commanded from the press, but invariably fell dead on the market; “but I am told that Selby makes almost nothing from the sales of his books.”
 
“But the magazines pay him handsomely,” said Miss Moyne.
 
“Yes, they do,” replied Ferris, pulling his long brown mustache reflectively, “and I can’t see why. He really is not popular; there is no enthusiasm for his fiction.”
 
“It’s a , by the critics,” said Hartley Crane. “Criticism is at a very low in America. Our critics are all either ignorant or given over to putting on English and French airs.”
 
Ferris opened his eyes in a quiet way and glanced at Peck who, however, did not appear to notice the remark.
 
“There’s a set of them in Boston and New York,” Crane went on, “who watch the Revue de Deux Mondes and the London Atheneum, ready to take the cue from them. Even American books must stand or fall by the turn of the foreign thumb.”
 
“That is a very ancient grumble,” said Ferris, in a tone indicative of .
 
“Take these crude, loose, awkward, almost obscene Russian novels,” continued Crane, “and see what a the critics of New York and Boston have in their behalf, all[28] because it chanced that a of Parisian literary roués fancied the filthy imaginings of Dostoieffsky and the raw vulgarity of Tolstoï. What would they say of you, Ferris, if you should write so low and dirty a story as Crime and Its Punishment by Dostoieffsky?”
 
“Oh, I don’t know, and, begging your grace, I don’t care a straw,” Ferris replied; “the publishers would steal all my profits in any event.”
 
“Do you really believe that?” inquired Peck.
 
“Believe it? I know it,” said Ferris. “When did you ever know of a publisher a book as in its fiftieth thousand so long as the author had any on the sales? The only book of mine that ever had a run was one I sold in the manuscript to George Dunkirk & Co., who publish all my works. That effort is now in its ninetieth thousand, while the best of the other six has not yet shown up two thousand! Do you catch the point?”
 
“But what difference can printing a statement of the books sold make, anyway?” innocently inquired Miss Moyne.
 
Ferris laughed.
 
“All the difference in the world,” he said; “the publisher would have to account to the author for all those thousands, don’t you see.”
 
“But they have to account, anyhow,” replied Miss Moyne, with a smile.
 
“Account!” exclaimed Ferris, contemptuously; “account! yes, they have to account.”
 
“But they account to me,” Miss Moyne gently insisted.
 
 
“Who are your publishers?” he demanded.
 
“George Dunkirk & Co.,” was the answer.
 
“Well,” said he, “I’ll you anything I can come within twenty of guessing the sales up to date of your book. It has sold just eleven hundred and forty copies.”
 
She laughed merrily and betrayed the dangerous closeness of his guess by coloring a little.
 
“Oh, its invariably just eleven hundred and forty copies, no matter what kind of a book it is, or what publisher has it,” he continued; “I’ve investigated and have settled the matter.”
 
The historian was suddenly thoughtful, little Mrs. Philpot appeared to be making some calculation, Crane was silently gazing at the ground and Peck, with grim humor in his small eyes, remarked that eleven hundred and forty was a pretty high average upon the whole.
 
Just at this point a figure appeared in the little roadway where it made its last turn from the wood toward the hotel. A rather tall, slender and angular young woman, bearing a red leather bag in one hand and a blue silk umbrella in the other, strode forward with the pace of a tragedienne. She wore a bright silk dress, leaf-green in color, and a black , of nearly the Army pattern, was set far back on her head, giving full play to a mass of short, fine, loosely tumbled yellow hair.
 
She was very much out of breath from her walk up the mountain, but there was a smile on her rather sallow face and an enterprising gleam in her light eyes.
 
 
She walked right into the hotel, as if she had always lived there, and they heard her talking volubly to the servant as she was following him to a room.
 
Everybody felt a of free Western air and knew that Hotel Helicon had received another interesting guest, original if not typical, with qualities that soon must make themselves respected in a degree.
 
“Walked from the station?” Mrs. Philpot ventured, in querulous, though kindly interrogation.
 
“Up the mountain?” Miss Moyne added, with a deprecatory inflection.
 
“And carried that bag!” exclaimed all the rest.