ful, intolerably dull. His very work
was a mistake. Long months of effort, and struggle of spirit, and as a
result a few patronising reviews, and a monetary reward, which, worked
out on a time basis, approached a sweating wage. If he never wrote
another line, should he be missed; would the world be a whit the poorer?
What was the sum total when all was told, but amusement for an idle
hour!

It was in the depths of depression that Martin entered the golf club
half an hour later, but on the threshold his good angel stood waiting.
His favourite partner, a retired civil servant, living in an adjoining
village, stood within the pavilion and acclaimed him with delight; the
most intelligent of caddies was at his disposal, and half-an-hour's play
demonstrated the fact that the day was his.

By the end of two hours the vapours had disappeared beneath the combined
influences of bracing air, congenial companionship, and a succession of
long drives; and then as he climbed up the side of a heathery slope,
suddenly, mysteriously, in the fashion known to all writers of fiction,
inspiration flashed! The longed-for clue appeared, the tangles
smoothed, the barren scene vibrated with life.

Martin stood still on the hill-side, and his lungs expanded with a deep,
envious breath. Work! Work! The study table--the scattered leaves,
the click of the typewriter; the barren hours, the hours when thoughts
flew so fast that the pen could not keep pace,--each different phase of
work rose before him, and each in its turn seemed good. His former
lethargy disappeared. Useless? Valueless? Was it of no value to be
one of the few writers who in a decadent age kept his pages clean? When
so many streams ran foul, was it a light thing to provide a crystal
well? And this last book should be the best he had written; stronger,
deeper, more vital. Already in his own mind it was a living thing. He
conceived a man, and lived in his image; he made unto him a wife. The
two faces flashed at him out of the blue...

Ten minutes later, as he took up his position before a buried ball,
Martin was telling himself briskly: "Hang it all, it's _true_! It _is_
my house. I can ask whom I like--"

CHAPTER FOUR.

"Cumly, _June_ 1, _19--_.

"Dear Captain Blair,

"As you say, I am bound in duty to thank you for the box.

"Considered as a box, it is a treasure indeed. It is so `worthy' of my
collection, that every other specimen looks in comparison