our on Sunday morning. She
was dismissed by a proprietor with a face of brass. Adrian sought her in
vain. She sought Adrian in vain--she did not know his address.
Thenceforward the tale split itself into two parts: the one describing
the life of Adrian, a successful barrister, on the heights of Babylon,
and the other the life of Enid, reduced to desperate straits, in the
depths thereof. The contrasts were vivid and terrific.

Mrs. Knight and Aunt Annie could not imagine how Henry would bring the
two lovers, each burning secretly the light torch of love in Babylon,
together again. But Henry did not hesitate over the problem for more
than about fifty seconds. Royal Academy. Private View. Adrian present
thereat as a celebrity. Picture of the year, 'The Enchantress.' He
recognises her portrait. She had, then, been forced to sell her beauty
for eighteenpence an hour as an artist's model. To discover the artist
and Enid's address was for Adrian the work of a few minutes.

This might have finished the tale, but Henry opined that the tale was a
trifle short. As a fact, it was. He accordingly invented a further and a
still more dramatic situation. When Adrian proposed to Enid, she
conscientiously told him, told him quietly but firmly, that she could
not marry him for the reason that her father, though innocent of a crime
imputed to him, had died in worldly disgrace. She could not consent to
sully Adrian's reputation. Now, Adrian happened to be the real criminal.
But he did not know that Enid's father had suffered for him, and he had
honestly lived down that distant past. 'If there is a man in this world
who has the right to marry you,' cried Adrian, 'I am that man. And if
there is a man in this world whom you have the right to spurn, I am that
man also.' The extreme subtlety of the thing must be obvious to every
reader. Enid forgave and accepted Adrian. They were married in a snowy
January at St. Paul's, Knightsbridge, and the story ended thus:

'_Babylon in winter_.

'_Babylon!_'

Henry achieved the entire work in seven days, and, having achieved it,
he surveyed it with equal pride and astonishment. It was a matter of
surprise to him that the writing of interesting and wholesome fiction
was so easy. Some parts of the book he read over and over again, for the
sheer joy of reading.

'Of course it isn't good enough to print,' he said one day, while
sitting up in the arm-chair.

'I should think any publisher would be glad t