that the noble art of fiction writing has come to lean more and more heavily on its illustrators. The mere words that go with the pictures grow less important every day. There are dozens of; distinguished novelists in the country at this mo ment who might be haberdashers if it weren't for the long, lean, haughty ladies who are scattered tastefully through their works."
Mr. Bland stirred uneasily.
"I can see you are at a loss to know what my search for seclusion and privacy has to do with all this," continued Mr. Magee. "I am an artist. For years I have drawn these lovely ladies who make fiction salable to the masses. Many a nov elist owes his motor-car and his country house to my brush. Two months ago, I determined to give up illustration forever, and devote my time to painting. I turned my back on the novelists. Can you imagine what happened?"
"My imagination's a little tired," apologized Mr. Bland.
"Never mind. I'll tell ypu. The leading au thors whose work I had so long illustrated saw ruin staring them in the face. They came to me,
