ought--and he asked how her craft as a novelist was prospering. Friends
of Miss Martin were obliged to ask, for they did not read _The Young
Girl_, or the other and less domestic serials in which her works
appeared.

'I am doing very well, thank you,' said Miss Martin. 'My tale _The
Curate's Family_ has raised the circulation of _The Young Girl_; and,
mind you, it is no easy thing for a novelist to raise the circulation of
any periodical. For example, if _The Quarterly Review_ published a new
romance, even by Mr. Thomas Hardy, I doubt if the end would justify the
proceedings.'

'It would take about four years to get finished in a quarterly,' said
Merton.

'And the nonagenarians who read quarterlies,' said Miss Martin, with the
flippancy of youth, 'would go to their graves without knowing whether the
heroine found a lenient jury or not. I have six heroines in _The
Curate's Family_, and I own their love affairs tend to get a little
mixed. I have rigged up a small stage, with puppets in costume to
represent the characters, and keep them straight in my mind; but
Ethelinda, who is engaged to the photographer, as nearly as possible
eloped with the baronet last week.'

'Anything else on?' asked Merton.

'An up-to-date story, all heredity and evolution,' said Miss Martin. 'The
father has his legs bitten off by a shark, and it gets on the nerves of
his wife, the Marchioness, and two of the girls are born like mermaids.
They have immense popularity at bathing-places on the French coast, but
it is not easy for them to go into general society.'

'What nonsense!' exclaimed Merton.

'Not worse than other stuff that is highly recommended by eminent
reviewers,' said Miss Martin.

'Anything else?'

'Oh, yes; there is "The Pope's Poisoner, a Tale of the Borgias." That is
a historical romance, I got it up out of Histories of the Renaissance.
The hero (Lionardo da Vinci) is the Pope's bravo, and in love with
Lucrezia Borgia.'

'Are the dates all right?' asked Merton.

'Oh, bother the dates! Of course he is a bravo _pour le bon motif_, and
frustrates the pontifical designs.'

'I want you,' said Merton, 'you have such a fertile imagination, to take
part in a little plot of our own. Beneficent, of course, but I admit
that my fancy is baffled. Could we find a room less crowded? This is
rather private business.'

'There is never anybody in the smoking-room at the top of the house,'
said Miss Martin, 'because--to let