r of Reardon's
acquaintances, Mr John Yule. This gentleman stepped briskly forward and
welcomed the returned wanderer.

'Let me introduce you,' he said, 'to my mother and sister. Your fame has
made them anxious to know you.'

Reardon found himself in a position of which the novelty was
embarrassing, but scarcely disagreeable. Here were five people
grouped around him, all of whom regarded him unaffectedly as a man of
importance; for though, strictly speaking, he had no 'fame' at all,
these persons had kept up with the progress of his small repute,
and were all distinctly glad to number among their acquaintances an
unmistakable author, one, too, who was fresh from Italy and Greece. Mrs
Yule, a lady rather too pretentious in her tone to be attractive to a
man of Reardon's refinement, hastened to assure him how well his books
were known in her house, 'though for the run of ordinary novels we don't
care much.' Miss Yule, not at all pretentious in speech, and seemingly
reserved of disposition, was good enough to show frank interest in the
author. As for the poor author himself, well, he merely fell in love
with Miss Yule at first sight, and there was an end of the matter.

A day or two later he made a call at their house, in the region
of Westbourne Park. It was a small house, and rather showily than
handsomely furnished; no one after visiting it would be astonished to
hear that Mrs Edmund Yule had but a small income, and that she was often
put to desperate expedients to keep up the gloss of easy circumstances.
In the gauzy and fluffy and varnishy little drawing-room Reardon found
a youngish gentleman already in conversation with the widow and her
daughter. This proved to be one Mr Jasper Milvain, also a man of
letters. Mr Milvain was glad to meet Reardon, whose books he had read
with decided interest.

'Really,' exclaimed Mrs Yule, 'I don't know how it is that we have had
to wait so long for the pleasure of knowing you, Mr Reardon. If
John were not so selfish he would have allowed us a share in your
acquaintance long ago.'

Ten weeks thereafter, Miss Yule became Mrs Reardon.

It was a time of frantic exultation with the poor fellow. He had always
regarded the winning of a beautiful and intellectual wife as the crown
of a successful literary career, but he had not dared to hope that such
a triumph would be his. Life had been too hard with him on the whole.
He, who hungered for sympathy, who thought of a woman's love as