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 A strident "S—h—sh" from the hostess silenced the chatter in the rooms. "Miss Fenodo will read a few selections from her forthcoming book of poems," she announced.

A tall, angular woman, clad in a plain serge walking-suit, rose to her feet and nodded awkwardly at the gathering. She seemed ill at ease, and fumbled nervously with several typewritten papers.

"'The Enchanted Mesa,'" she read, in an uncertain voice.

Philippa turned a vague eye on Victoria. "What's a 'Mesa'?" "'The Enchanted Mesa,'" explained Mrs. Durham, "is the name of those curious mountains in Arizona or New Mexico—it's—"

But the lank poetess had struck her gait, as one sometimes sees a lean, loose-built horse develope exceeding speed. Hers was real poetry, clear, terse, forceful, and colored. Amid the trumpery nonsense of the mock Bohemian salon, it was as much out of place as a jewel in an ash-heap. Every line minted clear and gleaming, the rare golden coin of language. 121