The Counterblast, Mixed Pickles and The Immondaine. The rebuffs he had suffered had not, you comprehend, been delivered by Hawkins's Weekly, let us say, or Snappets, or The Pigeon Fancier or Home Thoughts or The Flapper or The Hangman and Warder or The British Beanfeaster or Bulger's Magazine or Joy Bells.
No, Dunkle's output as a married man had been nil. On the other hand he had nothing with which to reproach himself where revelling is concerned. He had put the glowing hours behind him with astonishing rapidity and success; he had lived furiously every day from morning till night, and then from night till morning. Not once had his young wife known him to be engaged in literary composition; not once had she so much as caught him filling his fountain pen. Much Chloë cared. She had not married him for his poetry, which she
