f Monsieur felt disposed to write a
manuscript, in which the scene should be laid in France, and some of
the characters, at least, be French, and also allow himself a little
greater latitude, then he should be delighted to put the manuscript in
the hands of their very best translator, and give it out to an audience
that, above all things, admired vigour.

I heard all this with satisfaction. The offer meant a lot more work for
me, but I did not mind that, with success--dear success--in view. I
closed with his proposition at once, and after some formalities and
details had been gone into and settled, I rushed home to tell Howard.

So, for a time, settled into working intellectual grooves, our life ran
on quietly from day to day with a fair prospect on ahead of us.

And then came an unlucky incident which jerked the wheels of Howard's
existence out of the narrow, hard line of effort, and after that they
ran along anyhow, sometimes on and sometimes off it, and kept me in
dread of a total smash. The Champs Elysees were full of the late
afternoon sunlight, and we sauntered slowly, criticising the occupants
of the various carriages rolling up to the great arch of Napoleon, and
arguing in a broken, desultory way on our usual subject of
talk--literature.

Howard was on the outside, nearest the road, walking on the actual
kerb, and flicking up the leaves in the gutter, as he talked, with the
point of his cane. As we strolled, with our eyes more or less directed
on the string of vehicles moving in the centre of the sunny road, we
noticed one small, black brougham going the same way as ourselves, that
seemed conspicuous by being closed amongst the rest of the open
victorias. Suddenly it detached itself from the line of other carriages
and dashed up alongside of the pavement where we were walking. Its
wheels ground in the gutter, and I caught Howard's arm to draw him more
on to the pavement.

"Look out!" I exclaimed. "What a way to drive!" I added, as the
coachman whipped up his horses and drove on some fifty yards, close to
the kerb. There he pulled up abruptly. The door of the brougham was
pushed open and a woman got out. Such a figure it was that outlined
itself in the sunny light, standing on the white trottoir, and with the
vista of the Champs Elysees behind it--a form seductive in every line,
with a fine hip, and a tiny arched foot that tapped the pavement
impatiently.

"What's up?" I said to Howard. "Whom is she waitin