.'

'I'm glad to hear that. Any special plan for its publication?'

'No.'

'Then why not offer it to Jedwood? He's publishing a series of
one-volume novels. You know of Jedwood, don't you? He was Culpepper's
manager; started business about half a year ago, and it looks as if he
would do well. He married that woman--what's her name?--Who wrote "Mr
Henderson's Wives"?'

'Never heard of it.'

'Nonsense!--Miss Wilkes, of course. Well, she married this fellow
Jedwood, and there was a great row about something or other between
him and her publishers. Mrs Boston Wright told me all about it. An
astonishing woman that; a cyclopaedia of the day's small talk. I'm quite
a favourite with her; she's promised to help the girls all she can.
Well, but I was talking about Jedwood. Why not offer him this book of
yours? He's eager to get hold of the new writers. Advertises hugely; he
has the whole back page of The Study about every other week. I suppose
Miss Wilkes's profits are paying for it. He has just given Markland two
hundred pounds for a paltry little tale that would scarcely swell out
to a volume. Markland told me himself. You know that I've scraped an
acquaintance with him? Oh! I suppose I haven't seen you since then. He's
a dwarfish fellow with only one eye. Mrs Boston Wright cries him up at
every opportunity.'

'Who IS Mrs Boston Wright?' asked Reardon, laughing impatiently.

'Edits The English Girl, you know. She's had an extraordinary life.
Was born in Mauritius--no, Ceylon--I forget; some such place. Married a
sailor at fifteen. Was shipwrecked somewhere, and only restored to life
after terrific efforts;--her story leaves it all rather vague. Then she
turns up as a newspaper correspondent at the Cape. Gave up that, and
took to some kind of farming, I forget where. Married again (first
husband lost in aforementioned shipwreck), this time a Baptist minister,
and began to devote herself to soup-kitchens in Liverpool. Husband
burned to death, somewhere. She's next discovered in the thick of
literary society in London. A wonderful woman, I assure you. Must be
nearly fifty, but she looks twenty-five.'

He paused, then added impulsively:

'Let me take you to one of her evenings--nine on Thursday. Do persuade
him, Mrs Reardon?'

Reardon shook his head.

'No, no. I should be horribly out of my element.'

'I can't see why. You would meet all sorts of well-known people; those
you ought to have met long ago. Better still,