On
these ancient principles, and others equally venerable, the hospital
carried on its good work. But the Commandant made one new rule.
It cost five dollars to mention the New Era within its walls.
THE PRIMITIVE AND HIS SANDALS
"I am sick of all this," said the Great Author, sweeping his hand
over the silver-laden dinner-table. He seemed to include in his
gesture the whole house and the broad estate surrounding it. "It
bores me, and I don't believe it can be right."
His wife, at the other end of the table, shining in her low-necked
dress with diamonds on her breast and in her hair, leaned forward
anxiously, knowing her husband's temperament.
"But, Nicholas," she said, "what do you mean? You have earned all
this by your work as a writer. You are the greatest man in the
country. You are entitled to a fine house and a large estate."
He gravely nodded his big head with its flamboyant locks, and lit
a fresh cigarette.
"Quite right, my dear," said he, "you are always right on practical
affairs. But, you see, this is an artistic affair.
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