g in themselves? I mean apart from the
association with her name?"

"I'm no judge." Glennard took up his hat and thrust himself into his
overcoat. "I dare say I sha'n't do anything about it. And, Flamel--you
won't mention this to anyone?"

"Lord, no. Well, I congratulate you. You've got a big thing." Flamel was
smiling at him from the hearth.

Glennard, on the threshold, forced a response to the smile, while he
questioned with loitering indifference--"Financially, eh?"

"Rather; I should say so."

Glennard's hand lingered on the knob. "How much--should you say? You
know about such things."

"Oh, I should have to see the letters; but I should say--well, if you've
got enough to fill a book and they're fairly readable, and the book is
brought out at the right time--say ten thousand down from the publisher,
and possibly one or two more in royalties. If you got the publishers
bidding against each other you might do even better; but of course I'm
talking in the dark."

"Of course," said Glennard, with sudden dizziness. His hand had slipped
from the knob and he stood staring down at the exotic spirals of the
Persian rug beneath his feet.

"I'd have to see the letters," Flamel repeated.

"Of course--you'd have to see them...." Glennard stammered; and, without
turning, he flung over his shoulder an inarticulate "Good-by...."

V

The little house, as Glennard strolled up to it between the trees,
seemed no more than a gay tent pitched against the sunshine. It had the
crispness of a freshly starched summer gown, and the geraniums on the
veranda bloomed as simultaneously as the flowers in a bonnet. The garden
was prospering absurdly. Seed they had sown at random--amid laughing
counter-charges of incompetence--had shot up in fragrant defiance of
their blunders. He smiled to see the clematis unfolding its punctual
wings about the porch. The tiny lawn was smooth as a shaven cheek, and a
crimson rambler mounted to the nursery-window of a baby who never cried.
A breeze shook the awning above the tea-table, and his wife, as he drew
near, could be seen bending above a kettle that was just about to boil.
So vividly did the whole scene suggest the painted bliss of a stage
setting, that it would have been hardly surprising to see her step
forward among the flowers and trill out her virtuous happiness from the
veranda-rail.

The stale heat of the long day in town, the dusty promiscuity of the
suburban train were now but