editor will swallow the poem at a gulp."

Howard laughed.

"You're in an awful huff, Victor, with the British press, that's clear!"

I laughed too.

"Yes I am, I admit it, and all this leads up to the question I came to
ask you this afternoon. Will you come over to Paris with me? I am
going."

I got up and leant against the mantel-piece, pushing a place clear for
my elbow on it between a bottle of liqueur and a copy of "The Holy
Grail."

"You're great at springing mines upon one. Paris? why Paris? And how
can you tear yourself away from Lucia?"

"I wish you would not pronounce that word as if it rhymed with
Fuchsia," I said.

"Well, how do you want me to pronounce it?"

"You know quite well its Lu-chee-ah, and the accent is on the middle
syllable, not the first."

"Oh, all right: Lu-CHEE-ah. Ah! what a mouthful! I would rather say
Miss Grant!"

"It might be as well if you did," I said, coldly.

Howard looked at me and opened his eyes.

"You are uncommonly sticky to-day," he said, kicking a very old slipper
off his swinging foot and catching it on the toe again.

"Well, what about Paris? Let's hear."

"I am so sick of this rotten, wishy-washy England. They won't take my
things as they stand, and I'm not going to write 'Tales of my First
Feeding Bottle' to please them. So I'm going over to Paris. I shall
turn my MSS. into French and publish them there. The language lends
itself to perfect lucidity, and the Paris press allows men to write as
men. Besides, the French admire word-painting, which is my particular
vein. The English don't. They like composition. Here an author's pen
must remain always a stick dipped in ink. It must never become what
mine is--a painter's brush, wet, dripping, overflowing with oil colour.
It struck me you might care to come too, and do the same with your
verse. If so--come, by all means."

I looked down at his intelligent face and hoped he would come. Selfish,
conceited, and self-sufficient as I may be, there is a strand of
weakness made up in my composition that forces me to find the
companionship of another intellect whenever possible.

"Yes; I'll come," he answered after a minute, getting on to his feet
and thrusting both hands into his pockets with an energetic air. "I'm
rather dubious about the books and the translation business; but anyway
we can have a high old time in Paris!"

"But look here, Howard," I returned, "whether I succeed or not, I am
not meditating hav