rom her pocket an ancient leather purse,
counted out her money. Evidently discovering that it was no more than
she expected, she sighed, and rummaged out of a top drawer an old
illustrated magazine.

She sat down on the bed, and, turning the leaves rapidly till she reached
a certain page, rested the paper in her lap. Her eyes were fixed on a
photograph in the left-hand corner-one of those effigies of writers that
appear occasionally in the public press. Under it were printed the
words: "Mr. Hilary Dallison." And suddenly she heaved a sigh.

The room grew darker; the wind, getting up as the sun went down, blew a
few dropped petals of the pear-tree against the window-pane.

CHAPTER XII

SHIPS IN SAIL

In due accord with the old butler's comment on his looks, Hilary had felt
so young that, instead of going home, he mounted an omnibus, and went
down to his club--the "Pen and Ink," so called because the man who
founded it could not think at the moment of any other words. This
literary person had left the club soon after its initiation, having
conceived for it a sudden dislike. It had indeed a certain reputation
for bad cooking, and all its members complained bitterly at times that
you never could go in without meeting someone you knew. It stood in Dover
Street. Unlike other clubs, it was mainly used to talk in, and had
special arrangements for the safety of umbrellas and such books as had
not yet vanished from the library; not, of course, owing to any
peculative tendency among its members, but because, after interchanging
their ideas, those members would depart, in a long row, each grasping
some material object in his hand. Its. maroon-coloured curtains, too,
were never drawn, because, in the heat of their discussions, the members
were always drawing them. On the whole, those members did not like each
other much; wondering a little, one by one, why the others wrote; and
when the printed reasons were detailed to them, reading them with
irritation. If really compelled to hazard an opinion about each other's
merits, they used to say that, no doubt "So-and-so" was "very good," but
they had never read him! For it had early been established as the
principle underlying membership not to read the writings of another man,
unless you could be certain he was dead, lest you might have to tell him
to his face that you disliked his work. For they were very jealous of
the purity of their literary consciences. Excepti