ng on his recent
experiences and future prospects, led the way back to the sitting-room.
Not very long after this, Amy left the two friends to their pipes; she
was anxious that her husband should discuss his affairs privately with
Milvain, and give ear to the practical advice which she knew would be
tendered him.

'I hear that you are still stuck fast,' began Jasper, when they had
smoked awhile in silence.

'Yes.'

'Getting rather serious, I should fear, isn't it?'

'Yes,' repeated Reardon, in a low voice.

'Come, come, old man, you can't go on in this way. Would it, or wouldn't
it, be any use if you took a seaside holiday?'

'Not the least. I am incapable of holiday, if the opportunity were
offered. Do something I must, or I shall fret myself into imbecility.'

'Very well. What is it to be?'

'I shall try to manufacture two volumes. They needn't run to more than
about two hundred and seventy pages, and those well spaced out.'

'This is refreshing. This is practical. But look now: let it be
something rather sensational. Couldn't we invent a good title--something
to catch eye and ear? The title would suggest the story, you know.'

Reardon laughed contemptuously, but the scorn was directed rather
against himself than Milvain.

'Let's try,' he muttered.

Both appeared to exercise their minds on the problem for a few minutes.
Then Jasper slapped his knee.

'How would this do: "The Weird Sisters"? Devilish good, eh? Suggests all
sorts of things, both to the vulgar and the educated. Nothing brutally
clap-trap about it, you know.'

'But--what does it suggest to you?'

'Oh, witch-like, mysterious girls or women. Think it over.'

There was another long silence. Reardon's face was that of a man in
blank misery.

'I have been trying,' he said at length, after an attempt to speak which
was checked by a huskiness in his throat, 'to explain to myself how this
state of things has come about. I almost think I can do so.'

'How?'

'That half-year abroad, and the extraordinary shock of happiness which
followed at once upon it, have disturbed the balance of my nature.
It was adjusted to circumstances of hardship, privation, struggle.
A temperament like mine can't pass through such a violent change of
conditions without being greatly affected; I have never since been the
man I was before I left England. The stage I had then reached was the
result of a slow and elaborate building up; I could look back and see
the p