d fellow, that future father-in-law
of mine."

When Lawrence had first come back from the war I had thought him
wonderfully improved, but a long course of spoiling and flattery had
done him a world of harm. He liked very much to be lionised, and to see
him now posing in drawing-rooms, surrounded by a worshipping throng of
women, was enough to sicken any sensible being.

As for Derrick, though he could not be expected to feel his bereavement
in the ordinary way, yet his father's death had been a great shock to
him. It was arranged that after settling various matters in Bath
he should go down to stay with his sister for a time, joining me in
Montague Street later on. While he was away in Birmingham, however, an
extraordinary change came into my humdrum life, and when he rejoined me
a few weeks later, I--selfish brute--was so overwhelmed with the trouble
that had befallen me that I thought very little indeed of his affairs.
He took this quite as a matter of course, and what I should have done
without him I can't conceive. However, this story concerns him and has
nothing to do with my extraordinary dilemma; I merely mention it as a
fact which brought additional cares into his life. All the time he was
doing what could be done to help me he was also going through a most
baffling and miserable time among the publishers; for 'At Strife,'
unlike its predecessor, was rejected by Davison and by five other
houses. Think of this, you comfortable readers, as you lie back in your
easy chairs and leisurely turn the pages of that popular story. The book
which represented years of study and long hours of hard work was first
burnt to a cinder. It was re-written with what infinite pains and toil
few can understand. It was then six times tied up and carried with
anxiety and hope to a publisher's office, only to re-appear six times in
Montague Street, an unwelcome visitor, bringing with it depression and
disappointment.

Derrick said little, but suffered much. However, nothing daunted him.
When it came back from the sixth publisher he took it to a seventh, then
returned and wrote away like a Trojan at his third book. The one thing
that never failed him was that curious consciousness that he HAD to
write; like the prophets of old, the 'burden' came to him, and speak it
he must.

The seventh publisher wrote a somewhat dubious letter: the book, he
thought, had great merit, but unluckily people were prejudiced, and
historical novels rarely