before for disinterested study. If a new
novel that had succeeded came into her hands she perused it in a very
practical spirit, commenting to Reardon on the features of the work
which had made it popular; formerly, she would have thought much more of
its purely literary merits, for which her eye was very keen. How often
she had given her husband a thrill of exquisite pleasure by pointing
to some merit or defect of which the common reader would be totally
insensible! Now she spoke less frequently on such subjects. Her
interests were becoming more personal; she liked to hear details of the
success of popular authors--about their wives or husbands, as the case
might be, their arrangements with publishers, their methods of work.
The gossip columns of literary papers--and of some that were not
literary--had an attraction for her. She talked of questions such
as international copyright, was anxious to get an insight into the
practical conduct of journals and magazines, liked to know who 'read'
for the publishing-houses. To an impartial observer it might have
appeared that her intellect was growing more active and mature.

More than half an hour passed. It was not a pleasant train of thought
that now occupied her. Her lips were drawn together, her brows were
slightly wrinkled; the self-control which at other times was agreeably
expressed upon her features had become rather too cold and decided. At
one moment it seemed to her that she heard a sound in the bedroom--the
doors were purposely left ajar--and her head turned quickly to listen,
the look in her eyes instantaneously softening; but all remained quiet.
The street would have been silent but for a cab that now and then
passed--the swing of a hansom or the roll of a four-wheeler--and within
the buildings nothing whatever was audible.

Yes, a footstep, briskly mounting the stone stairs. Not like that of the
postman. A visitor, perhaps, to the other flat on the topmost landing.
But the final pause was in this direction, and then came a sharp rat-tat
at the door. Amy rose immediately and went to open.

Jasper Milvain raised his urban silk hat, then held out his hand with
the greeting of frank friendship. His inquiries were in so loud a voice
that Amy checked him with a forbidding gesture.

'You'll wake Willie!'

'By Jove! I always forget,' he exclaimed in subdued tones. 'Does the
infant flourish?'

'Oh, yes!'

'Reardon out? I got back on Saturday evening, but couldn't