ere's no chance, I suppose there isn't," wound up Palmerston, with a
sudden access of despondency.

"Oh, Palmerston," exclaimed Fancy, clasping her hands, "if it should
only turn out that you're a genius!"

"It _would_ be a bit of all right," he agreed, his cheerfulness
reviving.

"I have heard somewhere," she mused, "or perhaps I read it on the
newspaper, that men of genius make the very worst husbands, and a woman
must be out of her senses to marry one."

Again Palmerston's face fell. "I mayn't be one after all," he
protested, but not very hopefully.

"Oh yes, I am sure you are! And, what's more, if you make a hit, as
they say, I don't know but I might overlook it and take the risk.
You see, I'm accustomed to living with Mr Rogers, who is bound to go to
hell and that might turn out to be a sort of practice."

The boy stood silent, rubbing his head. He wanted time to think this
out. Such an altered face do our ambitions present to most of us as
they draw closer, nearer to our grasp!

Suddenly Fancy clapped her hands. "Why, of course!" she cried.
"I always had an idea, somewhere inside o' me, that I'd be a lady one of
these days--very important and covered all over with di'monds, so that
all the other women would envy me. You know that feelin'?"

"No-o," confessed Palmerston.

"You would if you were a woman. But, contrariwise, what I like almost
better is keepin' shop--postin' up ledgers, makin' out bills, _to
account rendered, second application, which doubtless has escaped your
notice_, and all that sort of thing. I saw a shop in Plymouth once with
young women by the dozen sittin' at desks, and when they pulled a string
little balls came rollin' towards them over on their heads like the
stars in heaven, all full of cash; and they'd open one o' these balls
and hand you out your change just as calm and scornful as if they were
angels and you the dirt beneath their feet. You can't think how I
longed to be one o' them and behave like that. But the two things
didn't seem to go together."

"What two things?"

"Why, sittin' at a desk like that and sittin' on a sofa and sayin'
'How d'e do, my dear? It's _so_ good of you to call in this dreadful
weather, especially as you have to hire. . . .' But now," said Fancy,
clasping her hands, "I see my way: that is, if you're really a genius.
You shall write your books and I'll sell them. '_Mr and Mrs Palmerston
Burt, Author and_--what's the word?--pub--publi