disturb her outward serenity. She kissed Caroline and
called her "dear child" as fondly as usual, shook hands graciously with
Captain Elisha, and bowed condescending recognition of Pearson.

"And how is the novel coming on? Do tell me!" she begged. "I'm sure we
interrupted a reading. It's too bad of us, really! But Malcolm insisted
upon coming. He has been very busy of late--some dreadful 'corner' or
other on the exchange--and has neglected his friends--or thinks he has.
I told him I had explained it all to you, Caroline, but he _would_ come
to-night. It is the first call he has made in weeks; so you _see_! But
there! he doesn't consider running in here a call."

Call or not, it spoiled the evening for at least two of the company.
Pearson left early. Captain Elisha excused himself soon after and went
to his room, leaving the Dunns to chat with Caroline for an hour or
more. Malcolm joked and was languid and cynical. His mother asked a few
carefully guarded questions.

"Quite a clever person, this young author friend of yours seems to be,
Caroline," she observed. "Almost brilliant, really."

"He isn't a friend of mine, exactly," replied the girl. "He and Captain
Warren are friendly, and father used to know and like him, as I have
told you. The novel is great fun, though! The people in it are coming to
seem almost real to me."

"I daresay! I was a great reader myself once, before my health--my
heart, you know--began to trouble me. The doctors now forbid my reading
anything the least bit exciting. Has this--er--Mr. Pearson means?"

"I know very little of him, personally, but I think not. He used to be
connected with the _Planet_, and wrote things about Wall Street. That
was how father came to know him."

"Live in an attic, does he?" inquired Malcolm. "That's what all authors
do, isn't it? Put up in attics and sleep on pallets--whatever they
are--and eat crusts, don't they? Jolly life--if you like it! I prefer
bucking wheat corners, myself."

Mrs. Dunn laughed, and Caroline joined her, though not as heartily.

"How ridiculous you are, Malcolm!" exclaimed his mother. "Mr. Pearson
isn't that kind of an author, I'm sure. But where does he live,
Caroline?"

"Somewhere on West 18th Street, I believe. He has rooms there, I think."

"Oh! Really? And how is this wonderful novel of his progressing? When
does he expect to favor us with it?"

"I don't know. But it is progressing very well at present. He has
written three