He had sold half a dozen short tales to thirdrate magazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguished editorial room, of international reputation. I’ve got imagination. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. One who—who—tres. “I feel justified then,” he said, “in annexing his chair. "If things had gone smoothly," he thought, "I should have cursed the fellow's stupidity.
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