of
merriment, and make the world laugh. Lord, how we love a good honest
laugh!"

With this he went briskly out of the office, and Desmond turned to his
task with a renewed interest. There was a point here and a sentence
there that might be made humorous. When the speakers read his report of
what they had spoken, they discovered that there was, after all, a
latent wit in them hitherto quite unsuspected. Those who had been
privileged to hear them discovered that remarks had been made at which
they had laughed, and that the speakers were not such prosy old fossils
as they had suspected.

"That man Quirk knows the secret of the new journalism," said Cairns to
Desmond. "It is not truth, or even a make-believe truth; it is to arouse
your readers' interest. Tickle them with humour; stuff them with the
sensational; let everything be brand-new. We will make the old
'Observer' gallop to beat us."

Desmond raised his eyebrows and waited to hear more, but Cairns turned
on his heel, saying:

"In a short time I may satisfy your curiosity, O'Connor; but there's a
lot to be done first."

CHAPTER VI.

READJUSTMENT.

For weeks after Denis Quirk's homecoming Kathleen O'Connor was uncertain
as to her feeling towards him.

He was ugly and abrupt, somewhat inquisitive, with none of those gentler
qualities that we term polish. He spoke his mind, and spoke it bluntly,
regardless of the feelings of others. Self-reliant and perfectly
satisfied with himself, he sometimes irritated the girl to the verge of
anger. But he was rarely angry, or, if he blazed out into sudden
passion, returned speedily to his customary imperturbability, and he was
always humorous. His mother he worshipped, and with her he was gentle as
a woman; his father he jested with in an affectionate manner. Kathleen
realised that he was a good son, while she resented his attitude to
herself. His abrupt questions, his curious searching looks led her to
believe that he was for ever testing her to discover the strength and
weakness of her character. This caused the girl to adopt an attitude of
defence, and to meet his inquisitive questions with replies that almost
bordered on discourtesy.

Just a fortnight after his arrival, as she sat writing in the
breakfast-room at Layton, pausing now and again to watch the gambols of
Mrs. Quirk's Persian kitten, Denis Quirk marched into the room. He
picked up the kitten, and seated himself with it near the door.

"Writing?"