ace, the fine modelling of the jaw,
but the expression in the dark eyes she could not see. "We'll have
such--sport!" She laughed, a deep, soft-throated laugh.

"I'm working," said Martin in a hesitating voice, a voice which seemed
forced out of him against his will. "I'm afraid, Grizel, that I
can't--"

"And I'm afraid, Martin, that you _must_! What work are you trying to
do?"

"I've started a fresh book. It's just beginning to go. The first
chapters are always a pull, but I hope at last that I'm well afloat."

"I'll help you!" announced Grizel calmly. "You play with me, and I'll
work with you. I've always felt it in me to write a corking novel.
We'll collaborate, and make 'em sit up! Present day, of course. I
can't contend with any century but my own. _Very_ modern, and up to
date, and the heroine lives in Kensington. She must be a duck, Martin!
_Is_ she a duck? What colour are her eyes?"

"Er--Her eyes are grey--"

"Grey as a mountain tarn--" Grizel rolled her own eyes to the ceiling.
"Well! It's a useful shade, and affords scope for variety. They can
grow black under stress of emotion, and in evening dress when she wants
to look her best. And the hero! he'll be my affair, of course. I'll
write the man-ey bits, and you'll do the girl--"

"You mean--"

Grizel waved an imperious hand.

"I do _not_! I mean what I say." She screwed up her little face in an
expressive _moue_. "Poof! Who knows more about a man in love--you or
I? Who'd be fairer to another girl?--If more books were written in that
way, they'd be a vast deal truer to life. We'll show 'em! Katrine,
congratulate us; our fortune is made."

Katrine's smile was a trifle forced. Of course it was nonsense to
suppose that Grizel would be allowed to invade the sanctuary of Martin's
room; nevertheless, knowing as she did the heights of her visitor's
audacity, she felt it her duty to adopt an air of dignified reproof.

Martin's work was not a subject for jest, it was a serious affair, with
the stages of which his sister was well acquainted. First the stage of
restless absent-mindedness, during which it was useless to expect
punctuality, or even an appropriately sensible answer to a question;
next, a brief period of intoxication when the long-delayed inspiration
dawned with a brilliance which promised a glory never before attained;
thirdly, the long months of labour and anxiety, in which the early
triumph faded to at best a tempera