. At
certain recklessly immoral moments he even thought a very little of
proving false to art. To such depths can the human soul descend!

The evening after the appearance of his story in the _Decade_, he was
sitting in front of his open fire in very much that mood. The lamps had
not been lighted. To him came Mortimer, his man. "A leddy to see you,
sir; no name," he announced, solemnly.

Severne arose in some surprise. "Light the lamp, and show her up," he
commanded, wondering who she could be.

At the sound of his voice, the visitor pushed into the room past
Mortimer.

"Never mind the lamp," cried Lucy Melville. The faithful Mortimer left
the room, and--officially--heard no more.

"Why, Lucy!" cried Severne.

In the dim light he could see that her cheeks were glowing with
excitement. She crossed the room swiftly, and put her hands on his
shoulders. "Bob," she said, gravely, with tears in her eyes, "I know I
ought not to be here, but I just couldn't help it! After you were so
noble! And it won't matter, for I'm going in just a minute."

Severne cast his mind back in review of his noble acts. "What is it,
Lucy?" he inquired.

"As if you could ask!" she cried. "I never knew of a man's doing so
tactful and graceful and _beautiful_ a thing in my life! And I don't
care a bit, and I believe you were right, after all."

"Right about what?" he begged, getting more and more bewildered.

"About the realism, of course."

She looked up at him again, pointing out her chin in the most adorable
fashion. Even serious-minded men have moments of lucidity. Severne had
one now.

"Oh, no, you mustn't, Bob--dear!" she cried, blushing.

"But really, Bob," she went on, after a moment, "even if realism is all
right, you must admit that your last story is the best thing you ever
wrote."

"Why, yes, I do think so," he agreed, wondering what that had to do with
it.

"I'm so glad you do. Do you know, Bob," she continued, happily, "I read
it all through before I noticed whose it was. And I kept saying to
myself, 'I _do_ wish Bob could see this story. I'm sure it would
convince him that imagination is better than realism'; for really, Bob,"
she cried, with enthusiasm, "it is the best imaginative story I ever
read. And when I got to the end, and saw the signature, and realised
that you had deserted your literary principles just for my sake, and
had actually gone to work and written such a _splendid_ imaginative
story after all you