his
original view of it reasserted itself with frequency. And in the end he
gloomily and proudly decided, once and for all, that the Stream of
Trashy Novels Constantly Poured Forth by the Press had killed all demand
for wholesome fiction; he came reluctantly to the conclusion that modern
English literature was in a very poor way. He breathed a sigh, and
dismissed the episode utterly from his mind.

And _Love in Babylon_ languished in the drawer for three months.

Then, upon an April morning, the following telegram was received at
Dawes Road, Fulham: '_Please bring manuscript me immediately top left
take cab Henry_.'

Mrs. Knight was alone in the house with Sarah when the imperious summons
of the telegraph-boy and the apparition of the orange envelope threw the
domestic atmosphere into a state of cyclonic confusion. Before tearing
the envelope she had guessed that Aunt Annie had met with an accident,
that Henry was dead, and that her own Aunt Eliza in Glossop had died
without making a will; and these imaginings had done nothing to increase
the efficiency of her intellectual powers. She could not read sense into
the message, not even with the aid of spectacles and Sarah.

Happily Aunt Annie returned, with her masculine grasp of affairs.

'He means _Love in Babylon_,' said Aunt Annie. 'It's in the top
left-hand drawer of his desk. That's what he means. Perhaps I'd better
take it. I'm ready dressed.'

'Oh yes, sister,' Mrs. Knight replied hastily. 'You had better take it.'

Aunt Annie rang the bell with quick decision.

'Sarah,' she said, 'run out and get me a cab, a four-wheeler. You
understand, a four-wheeler.'

'Yes'm. Shall I put my jacket on, mum?' Sarah asked, glancing through
the window.

'No. Go instantly!'

'Yes'm.'

'I wonder what he wants it for,' Aunt Annie remarked, after she had
found the manuscript and put it under her arm. 'Perhaps he has mentioned
it to Sir George, and Sir George is going to do something.'

'I thought he had forgotten all about it,' said Mrs. Knight. 'But he
never gives a thing up, Henry doesn't.'

Sarah drove dashingly up to the door in a hansom.

'Take that back again,' commanded Aunt Annie, cautiously putting her
nose outside the front-door. It was a snowy and sleety April morning,
and she had already had experience of its rigour. 'I said a
four-wheeler.'

'Please'm, there wasn't one,' Sarah defended herself.

'None on the stand, lady,' said the cabman brightly. 'Y