d Amy, who laughed in a forced way.

When he was gone, the two sat without speaking for several minutes.

'Do you care to make friends with those girls?' asked Reardon at length.

'I suppose in decency I must call upon them?'

'I suppose so.'

'You may find them very agreeable.'

'Oh yes.'

They conversed with their own thoughts for a while. Then Reardon burst
out laughing.

'Well, there's the successful man, you see. Some day he'll live in a
mansion, and dictate literary opinions to the universe.'

'How has he offended you?'

'Offended me? Not at all. I am glad of his cheerful prospects.'

'Why should you refuse to go among those people? It might be good for
you in several ways.'

'If the chance had come when I was publishing my best work, I dare say I
shouldn't have refused. But I certainly shall not present myself as the
author of "Margaret Home," and the rubbish I'm now writing.'

'Then you must cease to write rubbish.'

'Yes. I must cease to write altogether.'

'And do what?'

'I wish to Heaven I knew!'

CHAPTER XIII. A WARNING

In the spring list of Mr Jedwood's publications, announcement was
made of a new work by Alfred Yule. It was called 'English Prose in the
Nineteenth Century,' and consisted of a number of essays (several of
which had already seen the light in periodicals) strung into continuity.
The final chapter dealt with contemporary writers, more especially those
who served to illustrate the author's theme--that journalism is the
destruction of prose style: on certain popular writers of the day there
was an outpouring of gall which was not likely to be received as though
it were sweet ointment. The book met with rather severe treatment in
critical columns; it could scarcely be ignored (the safest mode of
attack when one's author has no expectant public), and only the most
skilful could write of it in a hostile spirit without betraying that
some of its strokes had told. An evening newspaper which piqued itself
on independence indulged in laughing appreciation of the polemical
chapter, and the next day printed a scornful letter from a
thinly-disguised correspondent who assailed both book and reviewer. For
the moment people talked more of Alfred Yule than they had done since
his memorable conflict with Clement Fadge.

The publisher had hoped for this. Mr Jedwood was an energetic and
sanguine man, who had entered upon his business with a determination to
rival in a year or so the