onderfully precious creations--the children of the
brain. They were as dear to him as the offspring of his own flesh and
blood could ever be. Hitherto they had been the mysterious but
delightful companions of his solitude. There was a peculiar pleasure in
finding that another, too, could realise them. They seemed indeed to
pass, as they two sat there and talked of them, into an actual and
material existence, to have taken to themselves bodily shapes, the dear
servants of his will, delightful puppets of his own creation. The
colour mounted into his cheeks, and the fire of hot life flashed through
his pulses. He drank wine again, conscious only of a subtle and
quickening happiness, a delicious sense of full and musical life.

"You have given me a wonderful idea of your story," she murmured.
"Nothing has charmed me so much for a long while. Now the only thing
which I am curious about is the style."

"The style," he repeated. "I don't think I have ever thought of that."

"And yet," she said, "you must have modified your usual style. Your
journalistic work, I think, is wonderful--strong, full of life and
colour, lurid, biting, rivetting. Yet I doubt whether one could write a
novel like that."

"You can scarcely expect a hack journalist," he said, with a smile, "to
write with the elegance of a Walter Pater. Yet of course I have taken
pains--and there is a good deal of revision to be done."

She shook her head softly.

"Revision" she said, "never affects style. The swing of a good story is
never so good as in the first writing of it. Ah, here is Mr.
Anderson."

An elderly gentleman was ushered in to them. He carried his hat with
him, and had the appearance of a man in a hurry. He greeted Emily with
courtesy, Douglas with interest.

"I've looked in for a moment," he said; "carriage waiting at the
door--got to speak at the Institute of Journalists and catch the
midnight train home. So this is Mr. Jesson, eh?"

Douglas admitted the fact, and the newcomer eyed him keenly.

"Will you write me a London letter of a thousand words three times a
week for ten pounds?" he asked abruptly.

"Certainly, if you think I can send you what you want," Douglas answered
promptly.

"The Countess answers for it that you can. I've seen your work in the
Courier. It's exactly what I wish for--pithy, to the point, crisp and
interesting. Never be beguiled into a long sentence, abjure politics as
much as possible, and read other London lett