met with success. However, he was willing to
take the story, and offered half profits, candidly admitting that he
had no great hopes of a large sale. Derrick instantly closed with this
offer, proofs came in, the book appeared, was well received like its
predecessor, fell into the hands of one of the leaders of Society, and,
to the intense surprise of the publisher, proved to be the novel of
the year. Speedily a second edition was called for; then, after a brief
interval, a third edition--this time a rational one-volume affair; and
the whole lot--6,000 I believe--went off on the day of publication.
Derrick was amazed; but he enjoyed his success very heartily, and I
think no one could say that he had leapt into fame at a bound.

Having devoured 'At Strife,' people began to discover the merits of
'Lynwood's Heritage;' the libraries were besieged for it, and a cheap
edition was hastily published, and another and another, till the book,
which at first had been such a dead failure, rivalled 'At Strife.' Truly
an author's career is a curious thing; and precisely why the first book
failed, and the second succeeded, no one could explain.

It amused me very much to see Derrick turned into a lion--he was so
essentially un-lion-like. People were for ever asking him how he
worked, and I remember a very pretty girl setting upon him once at a
dinner-party with the embarrassing request:

"Now, do tell me, Mr. Vaughan, how do you write stories? I wish you
would give me a good receipt for a novel."

Derrick hesitated uneasily for a minute; finally, with a humorous smile,
he said:

"Well, I can't exactly tell you, because, more or less, novels grow;
but if you want a receipt, you might perhaps try after this
fashion:--Conceive your hero, add a sprinkling of friends and relatives,
flavour with whatever scenery or local colour you please, carefully
consider what circumstances are most likely to develop your man into the
best he is capable of, allow the whole to simmer in your brain as long
as you can, and then serve, while hot, with ink upon white or blue
foolscap, according to taste."

The young lady applauded the receipt, but she sighed a little, and
probably relinquished all hope of concocting a novel herself; on the
whole, it seemed to involve incessant taking of trouble.

About this time I remember, too, another little scene, which I enjoyed
amazingly. I laugh now when I think of it. I happened to be at a huge
evening crush, a