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 needed. Experience isn't as important as common sense, which almost nobody's got, and imagination, which just almost doesn't exist. The rest of us can do the controlling of the imagination and the laying on of dampers. Of course—"

Then Rhoda stopped in her tracks. She burst out laughing, a little hysterically, and reached for another cigarette.

"Fancy us two!" she cried. "Talking like this . . . me with my eye on the roofs of the cockeyed world, and you there, half-way to France. . . Let's go out and have some tea. I'm starving."

The Prince there, Grover was musing, who sits and thinks—his air palace blown galley-west.

He rose unsteadily to his feet. If he died of the shame, he must relieve his conscience before Rhoda. After it was all said he could sail away, and spend the rest of his brief days drinking anis del oso.

She sat down again, and it was his turn to walk the room. In a turbulent stream he poured it all out—Casimir's verdict, the desperate tomato salads, Olga, Italy, the job, the novel, Geoffrey's letter, Noémi, Olga again. He didn't spare himself nor Rhoda. Indeed, beneath all his eloquence, he wondered if he might perhaps be overstating the case. Getting it all said half suggested solutions!

But he went on and on, long after the charwomen in the outer office had performed their evening tasks