George Allan England

“ It coaxed the buds to life. It caused sparrows to chipper and fly with straws and bits of string to window crevices. It flung the pigeons in swooping storms of flight across the elm tops of the Common, soon now to be touched with vivid green. Spring and its magic were abroad in the land.
Self-satisfied, rather chesty, exceedingly well clad, and altogether pleased with the world and with his own cleverness—feeling himself a superior side-line spectator of human life, immune from being caught and spun in its maelstroms—Wyatt whistled and hummed to himself as he approached the Lockwood house. ”

“ The silence continued, half embarrassing, half tingling—the kind of silence that sometimes follows when two human beings, to whom great things are destined, enter that most critical stage of first establishing contacts. ”

“ Your motor trip to the North, Boston, yourself—and especially yourself.”
“But—I don't understand!”
Rodman Wyatt laughed, then—a hearty and good laugh that tremendously relieved his plexus—the kind of laugh that breaks all ice.
“I'm a writer,” he explained. “Kind of a reporter—one of the much maligned fraternity that goes about getting the cream of life for the world to have with its breakfast coffee. In other words, it's my business to get the interesting, worth-while facts. ”