omplete, I guessed that this man was behaving in a manner highly
unusual among publishers. He was also patently contradicting the tenor of
his firm's letter to me. I thanked him, and said I should like, at any
rate, to glance through the manuscript.

'Don't alter it, Miss Peel, I beg,' he said. 'It is "young," I know;
but it ought to be. I remember my wife said--my wife reads many of our
manuscripts--by the way--' He went to a door, opened it, and called
out, 'Mary!'

A tall and slim woman, extremely elegant, appeared in reply to this
appeal. Her hair was gray above the ears, and I judged that she was four
or five years older than the man. She had a kind, thin face, with shining
gray eyes, and she was wearing a hat.

'Mary, this is Miss Peel, the author of _The Jest_--you remember. Miss
Peel, my wife.'

The woman welcomed me with quick, sincere gestures. Her smile was very
pleasant, and yet a sad smile. The husband also had an air of quiet,
restrained, cheerful sadness.

'My wife is frequently here in the afternoon like this,' said the
principal.

'Yes,' she laughed; 'it's quite a family affair, and I'm almost on the
staff. I distinctly remember your manuscript, Miss Peel, and how very
clever and amusing it was.'

Her praise was spontaneous and cordial, but it was a different thing from
the praise of her husband. He obviously noticed the difference.

'I was just saying to Miss Peel--' he began, with increased nervousness.

'Pardon me,' I interrupted. 'But am I speaking to Mr. Oakley or
Mr. Dalbiac?'

'To neither,' said he. 'My name is Ispenlove, and I am the nephew of the
late Mr. Dalbiac. Mr. Oakley died thirty years ago. I have no partner.'

'You expected to see a very old gentleman, no doubt,' Mrs.
Ispenlove remarked.

'Yes,' I smiled.

'People often do. And Frank is so very young. You live in London?'

'No,' I said; 'I have just come up.'

'To stay?'

'To stay.'

'Alone?'

'Yes. My aunt died a few months ago. I am all that is left of my
family.'

Mrs. Ispenlove's eyes filled with tears, and she fingered a gold chain
that hung from her neck.

'But have you got rooms--a house?'

'I am at a hotel for the moment.'

'But you have friends?'

I shook my head. Mr. Ispenlove was glancing rapidly from one to the
other of us.

'My dear young lady!' exclaimed his wife. Then she hesitated, and said:
'Excuse my abruptness, but do let me beg you to come and have tea with us
this afternoon. We liv