written on.
Nowadays, novels are published or not, either according to their merit
or the possibility of their appealing to the public taste."

Burton looked at the address.

"Thank you very much," he said. "I will take this in myself."

"When are you going to bring us something?" the sub-editor inquired.

"I am going home to try and write something now," Burton replied. "It
is either that or the pawnshop."

The sub-editor nodded.

"Novels are all very well for amusement," he said, "but they don't bring
in bread and cheese. Come right up to me as soon as you've got
something."

Burton left his novel at the address which the sub-editor had given him,
and went back to his lodgings. He let himself in with a latchkey. The
caretaker of the floor bustled up to him as he turned towards the door
of his room.

"Don't know that I've done right, sir," she remarked, doubtfully.
"There was a young person here, waiting about to see you, been waiting
the best part of an hour. I let her into your sitting-room."

"Any name?" Burton asked.

The caretaker looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling.

"Said she was your wife, sir. Sorry if I've done wrong. It came over
me afterwards that I'd been a bit rash."

Burton threw open the door of his sitting-room and closed it quickly
behind him. It was indeed Ellen who was sitting in the most
uncomfortable chair, with her arms folded, in an attitude of grim but
patient resignation. She was still wearing the hat with the wing, the
mauve scarf, the tan shoes, and the velveteen gown. A touch of the
Parisienne, however, was supplied to her costume by a black veil dotted
over with purple spots. Her taste in perfumes was obviously unaltered.

"Ellen!" he exclaimed.

"Well?" she replied.

As a monosyllabic start to a conversation, Ellen's "Well?" created
difficulties. Instead of his demanding an explanation, she was doing
it. Burton was conscious that his opening was not brilliant.

"Why, this is quite a surprise!" he said. "I had no idea you were
here."

"Dare say not," she answered. "Didn't know I was coming myself till I
found myself on the doorstep. Kind of impulse, I suppose. What have
you been doing to little Alf?"

Burton looked at her in bewilderment.

"Doing to the boy?" he repeated. "I haven't seen him since I saw you
last."

"That's all very well for a tale," Ellen replied, "but you're not going
to tell me that he's come into these ways naturally."

"What ways?" Burton