sh Lawrence could be more with Major Vaughan," she said; "for he
is his father's favourite. You see he is such a good talker, and
Derrick--well, he is absorbed in his books; and then he has such
extravagant notions about war, he must be a very uncongenial companion
to the poor Major."

I devoured turbot in wrathful silence. Freda glanced at me.

"It is true, isn't it, that he has quite given up his life to writing,
and cares for nothing else?"

"Well, he has deliberately sacrificed his best chance of success by
leaving London and burying himself in the provinces," I replied drily;
"and as to caring for nothing but writing, why he never gets more than
two or three hours a day for it." And then I gave her a minute account
of his daily routine.

She began to look troubled.

"I have been misled," she said; "I had gained quite a wrong impression
of him."

"Very few people know anything at all about him," I said warmly; "you
are not alone in that."

"I suppose his next novel is finished now?" said Freda; "he told me he
had only one or two more chapters to write when I saw him a few months
ago on his way from Ben Rhydding. What is he writing now?"

"He is writing that novel over again," I replied.

"Over again? What fearful waste of time!"

"Yes, it has cost him hundreds of hours' work; it just shows what a man
he is, that he has gone through with it so bravely."

"But how do you mean? Didn't it do?"

Rashly, perhaps, yet I think unavoidably, I told her the truth.

"It was the best thing he had ever written, but unfortunately it was
destroyed, burnt to a cinder. That was not very pleasant, was it, for a
man who never makes two copies of his work?"

"It was frightful!" said Freda, her eyes dilating. "I never heard a word
about it. Does Lawrence know?"

"No, he does not; and perhaps I ought not to have told you, but I was
annoyed at your so misunderstanding Derrick. Pray never mention the
affair; he would wish it kept perfectly quiet."

"Why?" asked Freda, turning her clear eyes full upon mine.

"Because," I said, lowering my voice, "because his father burnt it."

She almost gasped.

"Deliberately?"

"Yes, deliberately," I replied. "His illness has affected his temper,
and he is sometimes hardly responsible for his actions."

"Oh, I knew that he was irritable and hasty, and that Derrick annoyed
him. Lawrence told me that, long ago," said Freda. "But that he should
have done such a thing as that! It is