s a week instead of ten, we should be perfectly satisfied.
Let him stay till he feels like moving. Then we'll send him to the sea,
if he'll go."

The doctor laughed.

"You're great people, Rawlinson," he said. "Not many philanthropists
like you."

"It's not philanthropy," the sub-editor answered. "If you asked me to
put into L. s. d. what those articles were worth to us, I couldn't tell
you. But I can tell you this. We've paid thousands down more than
once, for an advertisement which wasn't worth half so much as those few
sheets of manuscript. We've an endless purse, but there's a short
supply of what we want to buy--originality. If we come across it we
don't let it go easily, I can tell you."

So Douglas was left undisturbed. Then one morning he woke up to find
his room a bower of roses, roses whose perfume and beauty took his
breath away. The nurse, who had tended a prince, said she had never
seen anything like them before. Douglas looked at them for a while
fascinated, stooped down and bathed his face in the blossoms. When he
spoke there was a change. One sense at least was revived in him--his
love for things beautiful.

"Where did they come from?" he asked.

The nurse smiled.

"A lady heft them yesterday," she said. "She drove up and stayed for
some time with the doctor. I believe that she is coming again to-day."

Douglas made no remark. Only the nurse smiled as she noticed him linger
a little over his dressing, and look for the first time with interest at
the clothes which had been sent in for him. Towards midday he grew
restless. Early in the afternoon there was a soft tap at the door.

"May I come in?"

The nurse opened the door. There was a rustle of draperies, and to
Douglas it seemed as though the room was suddenly full of wonderful
colour. A new life flowed in his veins. It was Emily de Reuss who came
towards him with outstretched hands.

CHAPTER XIII

THE FIRST TASTE OF FAME

At first he scarcely recognised her. He had seen her last in furs,
to-day she seemed like a delicate dream of Springtime. She wore a white
spotless muslin gown, whose exquisite simplicity had been the triumph of
a French artiste. Her hat, large and drooping, was a vision of pink
roses and soft creamy lace. There was a dainty suggestion of colour
about her throat--only the sunlight seemed to discover when she moved
the faint glinting green beneath the transparent folds of her gown.

She came over to Douglas with o