.

They went out into the garden for tea. Mr. Barbecue-Smith was duly
introduced.

"Mr. Stone is a writer too," said Priscilla, as she introduced Denis.

"Indeed!" Mr. Barbecue-Smith smiled benignly, and, looking up at Denis
with an expression of Olympian condescension, "And what sort of things
do you write?"

Denis was furious, and, to make matters worse, he felt himself blushing
hotly. Had Priscilla no sense of proportion? She was putting them in the
same category--Barbecue-Smith and himself. They were both writers, they
both used pen and ink. To Mr. Barbecue-Smith's question he answered,
"Oh, nothing much, nothing," and looked away.

"Mr. Stone is one of our younger poets." It was Anne's voice. He scowled
at her, and she smiled back exasperatingly.

"Excellent, excellent," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith, and he squeezed Denis's
arm encouragingly. "The Bard's is a noble calling."

As soon as tea was over Mr. Barbecue-Smith excused himself; he had to
do some writing before dinner. Priscilla quite understood. The prophet
retired to his chamber.

Mr. Barbecue-Smith came down to the drawing-room at ten to eight. He was
in a good humour, and, as he descended the stairs, he smiled to himself
and rubbed his large white hands together. In the drawing-room someone
was playing softly and ramblingly on the piano. He wondered who it could
be. One of the young ladies, perhaps. But no, it was only Denis, who got
up hurriedly and with some embarrassment as he came into the room.

"Do go on, do go on," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "I am very fond of
music."

"Then I couldn't possibly go on," Denis replied. "I only make noises."

There was a silence. Mr. Barbecue-Smith stood with his back to the
hearth, warming himself at the memory of last winter's fires. He could
not control his interior satisfaction, but still went on smiling to
himself. At last he turned to Denis.

"You write," he asked, "don't you?"

"Well, yes--a little, you know."

"How many words do you find you can write in an hour?"

"I don't think I've ever counted."

"Oh, you ought to, you ought to. It's most important."

Denis exercised his memory. "When I'm in good form," he said, "I fancy
I do a twelve-hundred-word review in about four hours. But sometimes it
takes me much longer."

Mr. Barbecue-Smith nodded. "Yes, three hundred words an hour at your
best." He walked out into the middle of the room, turned round on his
heels, and confronted Denis again. "Gue