oted himself to the elderly
Massiter cousin on his other side--throughout dinner they happily
undressed the world and found it sawdust.

Rachel meanwhile found Maurice Garden her other companion. He genially
enjoyed his dinner and talked in a loud voice and prepared the answers
that he always gave to ladies who asked him when he wrote, whether he
thought of his plots or his characters first, and "she did hope he
wouldn't mind her saying that of all his books the one----"

He frankly liked these questions and was taken by surprise when Rachel
said:

"I've never read any of your novels, Mr. Garden, so I won't pretend----"

He asked her what she did read.

"Have you ever read anything by an author called Peter Westcott?"

"Westcott? Westcott?... Let me see ... Westcott?... Well now--One of the
young men, isn't he?"

"Yes. He wrote a book called _Reuben Hallard_."

"Ah yes. I remember about _Reuben Hallard_--had quite a little success
as a first book. He's one of your high-brow young men, all for Art and
the rest of it. We all begin like that, Miss Beaminster. I was like that
myself once----"

She looked at him coolly.

"Why did you give it up?"

"Simply didn't pay, you know--not a penny in it. And why should there
be? People don't want to know what a young ass thinks about life if he
can't tell a story. All young men think the same--green leaves, moons
and stars and lots of symbols, you know--all good enough if they don't
expect people to pay for it."

"I think _Reuben Hallard's_ a fine book," she said, "and so are some of
the others. After all, everyone doesn't want only a plot in a book."

He looked at her with patronizing kindness. "Well, you see if your Mr.
Westcott doesn't change. Every writer wants an audience whatever he may
pretend, and the best way to get a audience is to give the audience what
it wants. It needs unusual courage to sit on a packing-case year after
year and shave in a broken looking-glass----"

She looked round the table. Everyone was happy. The butler was fat and
had the face of a Roman emperor, the food was very, very good, Nita
Raseley and Roddy laughed and laughed and laughed--

Suddenly Rachel's heart jumped in her body. Oh! she was glad; glad that
Roddy cared for her and would look after her, because otherwise she
didn't know what violence she might suddenly commit, what desperations
she might not engage upon, what rebels and outlaws she would not
support--

What Outlaws!