he wrote to Messrs Beit,
inquiring in a humble manner whether the manuscript had arrived in
safety. The firm replied in a very polite letter, expressing regret that
their reader had been suffering from a cold in the head, and had
therefore been unable to send in his report. A final decision was
promised in a week's time, and the letter ended with apologies for the
delay and a hope that he had suffered no inconvenience. Of course the
"final decision" did not come at the end of the week, but the book was
returned at the end of three weeks, with a circular thanking the author
for his kindness in submitting the manuscript, and regretting that the
firm did not see their way to producing it. He felt relieved; the
operation that he had dreaded and deprecated for so long was at last
over, and he would no longer grow sick of mornings when the letters were
brought in. He took his parcel to the sunny corner of the garden, where
the old wooden seat stood sheltered from the biting March winds. Messrs
Beit had put in with the circular one of their short lists, a neat
booklet, headed: _Messrs Beit & Co.'s Recent Publications_.

He settled himself comfortably on the seat, lit his pipe, and began to
read: "_A Bad Un to Beat:_ a Novel of Sporting Life, by the Honorable
Mrs. Scudamore Runnymede, author of _Yoicks, With the Mudshire Pack, The
Sportleigh Stables_, etc., etc., 3 vols. At all Libraries." The _Press_,
it seemed, pronounced this to be a "charming book. Mrs. Runnymede has wit
and humor enough to furnish forth half-a-dozen ordinary sporting novels."
"Told with the sparkle and vivacity of a past-mistress in the art of
novel writing," said the _Review_; while Miranda, of _Smart Society_,
positively bubbled with enthusiasm. "You must forgive me, Aminta," wrote
this young person, "if I have not sent the description I promised of
Madame Lulu's new creations and others of that ilk. I must a tale unfold;
Tom came in yesterday and began to rave about the Honorable Mrs.
Scudamore Runnymede's last novel, _A Bad Un to Beat_. He says all the
Smart Set are talking of it, and it seems the police have to regulate the
crowd at Mudie's. You know I read everything Mrs. Runnymede writes, so I
set out Miggs directly to beg, borrow or steal a copy, and I confess I
burnt the midnight oil before I laid it down. Now, mind you get it, you
will find it so awfully _chic_." Nearly all the novelists on Messrs
Beit's list were ladies, their works all ran to th