help him farm chickens. I have not regretted it."

"It is a lovely place, isn't it?"

"The loveliest I have ever seen. How charming your garden is."

"Shall we go and look at it? You have not seen the whole of it."

As she rose I saw her book, which she had laid face downward on the
grass beside her. It was that same much-enduring copy of "The
Maneuvers of Arthur." I was thrilled. This patient perseverance must
surely mean something.

She saw me looking at it.

"Did you draw Pamela from anybody?" she asked suddenly.

I was glad now that I had not done so. The wretched Pamela, once my
pride, was for some reason unpopular with the only critic about whose
opinion I cared, and had fallen accordingly from her pedestal.

As we wandered down the gravel paths she gave me her opinion of the
book. In the main it was appreciative. I shall always associate the
scent of yellow lubin with the higher criticism.

"Of course I don't know anything about writing books," she said.

"Yes?" My tone implied, or I hoped it did, that she was an expert on
books, and that if she was not it didn't matter.

"But I don't think you do your heroines well. I have got 'The
Outsider'--"

(My other novel. Bastable & Kirby, six shillings. Satirical. All about
society, of which I know less than I know about chicken farming.
Slated by _Times_ and _Spectator_. Well received by the _Pelican_.)

"--and," continued Phyllis, "Lady Maud is exactly the same as Pamela
in 'The Maneuvers of Arthur.' I thought you must have drawn both
characters from some one you knew."

"No," I said; "no."

"I am so glad," said Phyllis.

And then neither of us seemed to have anything to say.

My knees began to tremble. I realized that the moment had arrived when
my fate must be put to the touch, and I feared that the moment was
premature. We cannot arrange these things to suit ourselves. I knew
that the time was not yet ripe, but the magic scent of the yellow
lubin was too much for me.

"Miss Derrick--" I said hoarsely.

Phyllis was looking with more intentness than the attractions of the
flower justified at a rose she held in her hand. The bees hummed in
the lubin.

"Miss Derrick--" I said, and stopped again.

"I say, you people," said a cheerful voice, "tea is ready. Halloo,
Garnet, how are you? That medal arrived yet from the humane society?"

I spun round. Mr. Tom Chase was standing at the end of the path. I
grinned a sickly grin.

"Well, Tom," said