rrived from the
publisher's, that we were apprised of the fact that we had been
cherishing an author in our midst. Robin solemnly presented us with a
copy apiece (which I thought handsome but extravagant), and also sent
one to his parents, who, though I think they rather doubted the
propriety of possessing a son who wrote novels at all, wrote back
comparing it very favourably with _The Pilgrim's Progress_, the only
other work of fiction with which they were acquainted.

The book itself dealt with matters rather than men, and with men rather
than women; which was characteristic of its author, but rather
irritating for the Twins. It had a good deal to say about the under-side
of journalism,--graphic and convincing, all this,--and contained a
rather technical but absorbingly interesting account of some most
exciting financial operations, winding up with a great description of a
panic on the Stock Exchange. But there were few light and no tender
passages, from which it will be seen that Robin as an author appealed to
the male rather than the female intellect.

The Twins, I think, were secretly rather disappointed with the book,
less from any particular fondness for the perusal of love-passages than
from a truly human desire to note how Robin would have handled them; for
it is always interesting to see to what extent our friends will give
themselves away when they commit the indiscretion of a book. On this
occasion Robin had been exasperatingly self-contained.

But life is full of compensations. There was a dedication. It read:--

THIS BOOK

OWES ITS INCEPTION,

AND IS THEREFORE

DEDICATED,

TO

A CIRCUMSTANCE

OVER

WHOM

I HAVE NO CONTROL.

R. C. F.

Now it is obvious that in nine cases out of ten there is only one
circumstance over whom a vigorous young man has no control, and this
circumstance wears petticoats. Hitherto I had not seriously connected
Robin with the tender passion, and this sudden intimation that the most
serious-minded and ambitious of young men is not immune from the same
rather startled me.

The female members of my establishment were pleasantly fluttered, though
they were concerned less with the lady's existence than with her
identity.

"Who do you think she is?" inquired Kitty of me, the first time the
subject cropped up between us.

"Don't know, I'm sure," I murmured. I was smoking my post-prandial cigar
at the