are happy now; don't you like being married?"

"Oh, yes, I should be happy enough if things only went better with
us. He is so terribly unlucky. No one works harder than Frank; he
often sits up till three o'clock in the morning writing. He tries
everything, but nothing seems to succeed with him. There's this
paper. I don't believe he has ever had a penny out of it. Tell me,
Mr. Fletcher, do you think it will ever succeed?"

"Newspapers generally fail for want of a concerted plan of appeal to
a certain section of society kept steadily in view; they are nearly
always vague and undetermined; but I believe when four clever pens
are brought together, and write continuously, and with set purpose
and idea, that they can, that they must and invariably do create a
property worth at least twenty thousand pounds."

"Frank has gone to the station to meet Thigh. I distrust that man
dreadfully; I hope he won't rob my poor husband. Frank told me to get
a couple of pheasants for dinner. Which way are you going? To the
post-office? Do you want a stamp?"

"No, thank you, my letter is stamped." He held the letter in the box
unable to loose his fingers, embarrassed in the consideration whether
marriage would permit him to develop his artistic nature as he
intended. Lizzie was looking at him, and it was with difficulty that
he concealed from her the fact that he had not dropped his letter in
the box.

When they returned to the cottage they found Thigh and Frank were
turning over the pages of the last number of the _Pilgrim_.

"Just let's go through the paper," said Frank. "One, two,
three--twelve columns of paragraphs! and I'll bet that in every one
of those columns there is a piece of news artistic, political, or
social, which no other paper has got. Here are three articles, one
written by our friend here, one by me, and one by a man whose name I
am not at liberty to mention; but I may tell you he has written some
well-known books, and is a constant contributor to the _Fortnightly_;
here is a column of gossip from Paris excellently well done; here is
a short story ... What do you think the paper wants?"

Thigh was a very small and very neatly-dressed man. His manner was
quiet and reserved, and he caressed a large fair moustache with his
left hand, on which a diamond ring sparkled.

"I think it wants smartening up all round," he said. "You want to
make it smarter; people will have things bright nowadays."

"Bright!" said Frank;