finished?" I asked.

"I felt so miserable that I had to plunge into another story three days
after," he replied; and then and there he gave me the sketch of his
second novel, 'At Strife,' and told me how he meant to weave in his
childish fancies about the defence of the bridge in the Civil Wars.

"And about 'Lynwood?' Are you coming up to town to hawk him round?" I
asked.

"I can't do that," he said; "you see I am tied here. No, I must send him
off by rail, and let him take his chance."

"No such thing!" I cried. "If you can't leave Bath I will take him round
for you."

And Derrick, who with the oddest inconsistency would let his MS. lie
about anyhow at home, but hated the thought of sending it out alone on
its travels, gladly accepted my offer. So next week I set off with the
huge brown paper parcel; few, however, will appreciate my good nature,
for no one but an author or a publisher knows the fearful weight of a
three volume novel in MS.! To my intense satisfaction I soon got rid of
it, for the first good firm to which I took it received it with great
politeness, to be handed over to their 'reader' for an opinion; and
apparently the 'reader's' opinion coincided with mine, for a month
later Derrick received an offer for it with which he at once closed--not
because it was a good one, but because the firm was well thought of,
and because he wished to lose no time, but to have the book published at
once. I happened to be there when his first 'proofs' arrived. The Major
had had an attack of jaundice, and was in a fiendish humour. We had
a miserable time of it at dinner, for he badgered Derrick almost past
bearing, and I think the poor old fellow minded it more when there was
a third person present. Somehow through all he managed to keep his
extraordinary capacity for reverencing mere age--even this degraded and
detestable old age of the Major's. I often thought that in this he
was like my own ancestor, Hugo Wharncliffe, whose deference and
respectfulness and patience had not descended to me, while unfortunately
the effects of his physical infirmities had. I sometimes used to
reflect bitterly enough on the truth of Herbert Spencer's teaching as to
heredity, so clearly shown in my own case. In the year 1683, through
the abominable cruelty and harshness of his brother Randolph, this Hugo
Wharncliffe, my great-great-great-great-great grandfather, was immured
in Newgate, and his constitution was thereby so much impaired a