that she knew it was bound
to give him.

"Found one?" he asked. Her hands almost dropped the paper.

"No," she said. "There don't seem any more, unless I've managed to
miss one. Now I'm seeing what has happened!" And she contrived to
laugh.

He appeared to feel relief rather than disappointment.

"You don't often do that," he said cheerily enough. "I thought you
despised politics and everything like that?"

"I don't often get the chance to read them," she said and hurriedly
turned on to the next page, "considering you always cling firmly to the
D.T. till I've got to begin my housework!" This last was her name for
what he, in a Yankee spirit, nicknamed "chores."

So for the moment that danger was averted, but Helena knew it was
really no more than postponed, and long before the day was over, wished
that she had faced it instantly.

When he came in to her just before dinner she knew that he had seen
before he spoke a word. He drew the notice, neatly cut out, from his
pocket, and she made a pretence of reading it.

"It's merely spite," was all he said. "How dare they call me
insincere? They know it's a good seller and that's just what they
can't stand. I've written to the editor and I hope I get that swine
the boot."

"Is that very kind, dear?" she asked. "It's his job, you know, and you
said bad reviews would sell the book."

He gave an angry snort. "Yes, I dare say, but not this kind. No plot,
nothing except that its fatiguing and _may_ be a burlesque. English
people hate being puzzled even more than they hate being bored."

This saying had the effect, she thought, of cheering him a little, for
he gave a sardonic laugh and said:

"Well, no matter, let them do their worst. Trust the public later on
to find out that the novel's bad! ... When's dinner?"

CHAPTER XV

DISCOVERIES

An Ethical Society might pass a winter's evening in this debate: Does
it need more strength to endure failure or to bear success? The
dangers upon either road stand out easily, for all but the actual
wayfarer. By the one he may fall into the slough of Bitterness, whilst
the other, far more pleasant as it draws him on, may lead to no more
than the pitiable, luxurious cities of Arrogance and Meanness.

The problem certainly needs no elaboration in this place, since
Hubert's path lay all too clearly towards failure. "I fear," wrote his
publisher as an old friend, "it is no use concealing the fact that
peop