I was reading my bully old pal Montaigne at two o’clock when I heard the sheets rustle under my door.  I gathered them up and read the story.

The hissing of geese, the languishing cooing of doves, the braying of donkeys, the chatter of irresponsible sparrows—­these were in my mind’s ear as I read.  “Suffering Sappho!” I exclaimed to myself.  “Is this the divine fire that is supposed to ignite genius and make it practical and wage-earning?”

The story was sentimental drivel, full of whimpering soft-heartedness and gushing egoism.  All the art that Pettit had acquired was gone.  A perusal of its buttery phrases would have made a cynic of a sighing chambermaid.

In the morning Pettit came to my room.  I read him his doom mercilessly.  He laughed idiotically.

“All right, Old Hoss,” he said, cheerily, “make cigar-lighters of it.  What’s the difference?  I’m going to take her to lunch at Claremont to-day.”

There was about a month of it.  And then Pettit came to me bearing an invisible mitten, with the fortitude of a dish-rag.  He talked of the grave and South America and prussic acid; and I lost an afternoon getting him straight.  I took him out and saw that large and curative doses of whiskey were administered to him.  I warned you this was a true story—­’ware your white ribbons if only follow this tale.  For two weeks I fed him whiskey and Omar, and read to him regularly every evening the column in the evening paper that reveals the secrets of female beauty.  I recommend the treatment.

After Pettit was cured he wrote more stories.  He recovered his old-time facility and did work just short of good enough.  Then the curtain rose on the third act.

A little, dark-eyed, silent girl from New Hampshire, who was studying applied design, fell deeply in love with him.  She was the intense sort, but externally glace, such as New England sometimes fools us with.  Pettit liked her mildly, and took her about a good deal.  She worshipped him, and now and then bored him.

There came a climax when she tried to jump out of a window, and he had to save her by some perfunctary, unmeant wooing.  Even I was shaken by the depths of the absorbing affection she showed.  Home, friends, traditions, creeds went up like thistle-down in the scale against her love.  It was really discomposing.

One night again Pettit sauntered in, yawning.  As he had told me before, he said he felt that he could do a great story, and as before I hunted him to his room and saw him open his inkstand.  At one o’clock the sheets of paper slid under my door.

I read that story, and I jumped up, late as it was, with a whoop of joy.  Old Pettit had done it.  Just as though it lay there, red and bleeding, a woman’s heart was written into the lines.  You couldn’t see the joining, but art, exquisite art, and pulsing nature had been combined into a love story that took you by the throat like the quinsy.  I broke into Pettit’s room and beat him on the back and called him names—­names high up in the galaxy of the immortals that we admired.  And Pettit yawned and begged to be allowed to sleep.