e hundred and
sixty-five days, represented less than two hundred words a day. It
looked like child's play--on the sheet of paper. It fairly astonished
Hugh when he saw the whole question of his authorship thus reduced to
its simple factors in black and white. Kate had typed the remarkable
memorandum for him last year, and pasted it on a card, so that he might
prop it up before him on his desk as a constant reminder.

Two hundred words a day! He used to spend much of the early part of
January leaning back in his chair, happily planning out the
accomplishment of two or three books which had long been in his head,
but which want of time had hitherto prevented from getting as far as his
writing-block. Yes, he determined (in January) that it was more than
possible to have the whole three finished by next December; he was not
married, his time was his own, he could order his days as he pleased,
and turn night into day, and day into night, exactly when he chose. Why,
when the good moods came, did he not write five thousand words a day,
easily, eagerly! And this steady writing of a couple of hundred words a
day would bring the good mood often, no doubt.

Yes, he would finish the three books this year--the subjects were all to
his hand--and possibly the play he had had tucked away in his mind so
many years. And some verse, too--the luxury of verse was very dear to
him.

Brave January with the sun of resolution flaming high in the sky!

It was December now.

The poet might have as truly spoken of the _facilis descensus_ to
December as to the torrid region he mentioned.

It was December, and Hugh's first book still wanted forty thousand words
to complete it. The other two works, the play, the verses, were still in
the pale nimbus that ever plays tantalizingly around an author's desk.

It was December and the publisher was clamouring for copy. In the proud
insolence begot of January's shining possibilities and Kate's neat
memorandum, Hugh had promised his book by August.

And the long-suffering, kindly publisher, sympathetic over an author's
mood, had refrained from overmuch pressing of his claim for three
months. But it was December now and he was growing restive; the MS. had
to be typed, had to waste five weeks at sea, to be read in London, to be
placed as advantageously as possible for serial rights in various
countries, to be illustrated, to be printed, proofs had to be sent out
for correction, to be returned, ten more