the occupant of the
desk replied briefly, and sat down again.

"Where _is_ Mr. Curtis?" Elfrida asked. She had not
counted upon this. To the physical depression of her walk
there added itself a strong disgust with the unsuccessful
situation. She persisted, knowing what she would have to
suffer from herself if she failed.

"Mr. Curtis is in the country. I cannot possibly give
you his address. You can write to him here, and the letter
will be forwarded. But he only sees people by
appointment--especially ladies," the little man added,
with a half-smile which had more significance in it than
Elfrida could bear. Her face set itself against the anger
that burned up in her, and she walked quickly from the
door to the desk, her wet skirts swishing with her steps.
She looked straight at the man, and began to speak in a
voice of constraint and authority.

"You will be kind enough to get up," she said, "and listen
to what I have to say." The man got up instantly.

"I came here," she went on, "to offer your editor an
article--this article;" she drew out the manuscript and
laid it before him. "I thought from the character of the
contributions to last week's number of the _Consul_ that
he might very well be glad of it."

Her tone reduced the man to silence. Mechanically he
picked up the manuscript and fingered the leaves.

"Read the first few sentences, please," said Elfrida.

"I've nothing to do with that department, miss--"

"I have no intention whatever of leaving it with you.
But I shall be obliged if you will read the first few
sentences." He read them, the girl standing watching him.

"Now," said she, "do you understand?" She took the pages
from his hand and returned them to the envelope.

"Yes, miss--it's certainly interesting, but--"

"Be quite sure you understand," said Elfrida, as the
ground-glass door closed behind her.

Before she reached the foot of the staircase she was in
a passion of tears. She leaned, against the wall in the
half darkness of the passage, shaking with sobs, raging
with anger and pity, struggling against her own contempt.
Gradually she gained a hold upon herself, and as she
dried her eyes finally she lost all feeling but a heavy
sense of failure. She sat down faintly on the lowest
step, remembering that she had eaten nothing since
breakfast, and fanned her flushed face with the sheets
of her manuscript. She preferred that even the unregarding
London streets should not see the trace