the library
making one at that very moment. And this was the man she had had the
impertinence to pity; whom Horace would say she now proposed to
patronize. As she stood contemplating the pile of manuscript before
her, Miss Lucia Harden felt (for a great lady) quite absurdly small.

In that humble mood she was found by Miss Palliser.

"What's up?" said Kitty.

"Kitty, that little man in there--he's written the most beautiful
play. It's so terribly sad."

"What, the play?"

"No, the little man. It's a classic, Kitty--it'll live."

"Then I'm sure you needn't pity him. Let's have a look at the thing."
Miss Palliser dipped into the manuscript, and was lost.

"By Jove," she said, "it does look ripping. Where does the sadness
come in?"

"He thinks he'll never write another."

"Well, perhaps he won't."

"He will--think of it--he's a genius, the real thing, this time.
Only--he has to stand behind a counter and make catalogues."

Miss Palliser meditated. "Does he--does he by any chance drop his
aitches?"

"Kitty, he _does_."

"Then Lucy, dear child, beware, beware, his flashing eyes, his
floating hair--"

"Don't. That little man is on my mind."

"I shouldn't let him stop there too long, if I were you. He might
refuse to get on."

"I must do something for him, and I must do it now. What _can_ I do?"

"Not much, I imagine."

"I--I think I'll ask him to dinner."

"I wouldn't. You said he drops his aitches. Weave," said Miss
Palliser, "a circle round him thrice, and close your eyes with holy
dread, but whatever you do, don't ask him to dinner."

"Why not?"

"Because ten to one it would make him most horribly uncomfortable. Not
that that matters so much. But wouldn't the faithful Robert think it a
little odd?"

"Robert is too faithful to think anything at all."

"I'm not so sure of that. Personally, I wish you _would_ ask him to
dinner--I seem to foresee a certain amount of amusing incident."

"Well, I don't think I will ask him--to dinner. Perhaps he wouldn't
enjoy it. But as I've got to talk over his play with him, I should
like to ask him to something."

"Ask him to coffee afterwards."

"Coffee hardly seems enough."

"It depends. Serve it festively--on a table, and pour it out yourself.
Offer him strange and bewitching forms of food. Comfort him with--with
angel cake--and savoury sandwiches and bread and butter."

"I see--a sort of compromise?"

"Exactly. Society, my child, is based on compr