comical first paragraph of the
eighth chapter over which we have all laughed. I suppose few readers
guessed the author's state of mind when he wrote it. I looked over his
shoulder to see what he had written, and couldn't help laughing aloud--I
verily believe that it was his way of turning off attention from his
arm, and leading me safely from the region of awkward questions.

"By-the-by," I exclaimed, "your writing of garden-parties reminds me. I
went to one at Campden Hill the other day, and had the good fortune to
meet Miss Freda Merrifield."

How his face lighted up, poor fellow, and what a flood of questions he
poured out. "She looked very well and very pretty," I replied. "I played
two sets of tennis with her. She asked after you directly she saw me,
seeming to think that we always hunted in couples. I told her you were
living here, taking care of an invalid father; but just then up came
the others to arrange the game. She and I got the best courts, and as we
crossed over to them she told me she had met your brother several times
last autumn, when she had been staying near Aldershot. Odd that he never
mentioned her here; but I don't suppose she made much impression on him.
She is not at all his style."

"Did you have much more talk with her?" he asked.

"No, nothing to be called talk. She told me they were leaving London
next week, and she was longing to get back to the country to her beloved
animals--rabbits, poultry, an aviary, and all that kind of thing. I
should gather that they had kept her rather in the background this
season, but I understand that the eldest sister is to be married in the
winter, and then no doubt Miss Freda will be brought forward."

He seemed wonderfully cheered by this opportune meeting, and though
there was so little to tell he appeared to be quite content. I left him
on Monday in fairly good spirits, and did not come across him again till
September, when his arm was well, and his novel finished and revised. He
never made two copies of his work, and I fancy this was perhaps because
he spent so short a time each day in actual writing, and lived so
continually in his work; moreover, as I said before, he detested
penmanship.

The last part of 'Lynwood' far exceeded my expectations; perhaps--yet I
don't really think so--I viewed it too favourably. But I owed the book
a debt of gratitude, since it certainly helped me through the worst part
of my life.

"Don't you feel flat now it is