nk
it's called? "Lions in their Lairs. No. 19. Interview with the
brilliant author of _Love in Babylon_." And you told us her name was
Foster.'

'Whose name?' Henry demanded, reddening in the hot water.

'You know--that lady's name, the one that called.'

'So it is.'

'No, it isn't, dear. It's Flossie Brighteye. Oh, I beg pardon, Henry!
I'm sure I beg pardon!'

Aunt Annie, in the excitement of discovering Miss Foster's real name,
and ground withal for her original suspicion that the self-styled Miss
Foster was no better than she ought to be, had leaned too heavily
against the door, and thrust it wide open. She averted her eyes and drew
it to in silence.

'Shall I show the paper to your mother at once?' she asked, after a fit
pause.

'Yes, do,' said Henry.

'And then bring it up to you again for you to read in bed?'

'Oh,' replied Henry in the grand manner, 'I can read it to-morrow
morning.

He said to himself that he was not going to get excited about a mere
interview, though it was his first interview. During the past few days
the world had apparently wakened up to his existence. Even the men at
the office had got wind of his achievement, and Sir George had been
obliged to notice it. At Powells everyone pretended that this was the
same old Henry Knight who arrived so punctually each day, and yet
everyone knew secretly that it was not the same old Henry Knight.
Everyone, including Henry, felt--and could not dismiss the feeling--that
Henry was conferring a favour on the office by working as usual. There
seemed to be something provisional, something unreal, something uncanny,
in the continuance of his position there. And Sir George, when he
demanded his services to take down letters in shorthand, had the air of
saying apologetically: 'Of course, I know you're only here for fun; but,
since you are here, we may as well carry out the joke in a practical
manner.' Similar phenomena occurred at Dawes Road. Sarah's awe of Henry,
always great, was enormously increased. His mother went about in a state
of not being quite sure whether she had the right to be his mother,
whether she was not taking a mean advantage of him in remaining his
mother. Aunt Annie did not give herself away, but on her face might be
read a continuous, proud, gentle surprise that Henry should eat as
usual, drink as usual, talk simply as usual, and generally behave as
though he was not one of the finest geniuses in England.

Further, Mr. Onions