e Chamber at the Capitol was extremely draughty. Possibly Mr.
Pearson's ailment does come from sleeping in a draught. Not that father
was accustomed to _sleep_ during the sessions--Oh, dear, no! not that,
of course. How absurd!"

She laughed gayly. Pearson, who seemed to think it time to say
something, declared that, so far as he knew, he had no cold or any
symptoms of one.

"Well," said Mrs. Hepton, with conviction, "something ails you, I know.
We can all see it; can't we?" turning to the rest of the company. "Why,
you've scarcely spoken since you sat down at the table. And you've eaten
next to nothing. Perhaps there is some trouble, something on your mind
which is worrying you. Oh, I _hope_ not!"

"No doubt it is the preoccupation of genius," remarked Mrs. Dickens.
"I'm sure it must be that. When 'C.' is engaged with some particularly
trying literary problem he frequently loses all his appetite and does
not speak for hours together. Isn't it so, dear?"

"C.," who was painfully conscious that he might have made a miscue in
the matter of the quotation, answered sharply.

"No," he said. "Not at all. Don't be silly, Maria."

Miss Sherborne clasped her hands. "_I_ know!" she exclaimed in mock
rapture; "Mr. Pearson is in love!"

This suggestion was received with applause and hilarity. Pearson pushed
back his chair and rose.

"I'm much obliged for this outburst of sympathy," he observed, dryly.
"But, as I say, I'm perfectly well, and the other diagnoses are too
flattering to be true. Good morning."

Back in his room he seated himself at his desk, took the manuscript of
his novel from the drawer, and sat moodily staring at it. He was in no
mood for work. The very sight of the typewritten page disgusted him.
As he now felt, the months spent on the story were time wasted. It was
ridiculous for him to attempt such a thing; or to believe that he
could carry it through successfully; or to dream that he would ever be
anything better than a literary hack, a cheap edition of "C." Dickens,
minus the latter's colossal self-satisfaction.

He was still sitting there, twirling an idle pencil between his fingers,
when he heard steps outside his door. Someone knocked.

"Well, what is it?" he asked.

His landlady answered.

"Mr. Pearson," she said, "may I see you?"

He threw down the pencil and, rising, walked to the door and opened it.
Mrs. Hepton was waiting in the hall. She seemed excited.

"Mr. Pearson," she said, "wil