a paragraph. She could never, never catch
up! And from under her closed eyelids two hot tears
started and ran over her cold cheeks. It came upon her
suddenly that she was sick with jealousy, not envy, but
pure anger at being distanced, and she tried to attack
herself about it. With a strong effort she heaped opprobrium
and shame upon herself, denounced herself, tried to hate
herself. But she felt that it was all a kind of dumb-show,
and that under it nothing could change the person she
was or the real feeling she had about this--nothing except
being first. Ah! then she could be generous and loyal
and disinterested; then she could be really a nice person
to know, she derided herself. And as her foot touched
the little hand-bag on the floor she took a kind of sullen
courage, which deserted her when she folded the paper on
her lap and was struck again in the face with Lash and
Black's advertisement on the outside page announcing
Janet's novel in letters that looked half a foot long.
Then she resigned herself to her wretchedness till the
train sped into the glory of Paddington.

"I hope you're not bad, miss," remarked the small boy's
mother as they pushed toward the door together; "them
Banburys don't agree with everybody."

The effect upon Elfrida was hysterical. She controlled
herself just long enough to answer with decent gravity,
and escaped upon the platform to burst into a silent
quivering paroxysm of laughter that brought her overcharged
feeling delicious relief, and produced an answering smile
on the face of a large, good-looking policeman. Her laugh
rested her, calmed her, and restored something of her
moral tone. She was at least able to resist the temptation
of asking the boy at the book-stall where she bought
"John Camberwell" whether the volume was selling rapidly
or not. Buddha looked on askance while she read it, all
night long and well into the morning. She reached the
last page and flung down the book in pure physical
exhaustion, with the framework of half a dozen reviews
in her mind. When she awoke, at two in the afternoon,
she decided that she must have another day or two of
solitude; she would not let the Cardiffs know she had
returned quite yet.

Three days afterward the _Illustrated Age_ published a
review of "John Camberwell" which brought an agreeable
perplexity to Messrs. Lash and Black. It was too good to
compress, and their usual advertising space would not
contain it all. It was almost