a way, you know, that is
success.'

'In a way,' repeated Maud, scornfully.

'Suppose we talk of something else,' suggested Dora, who seemed to fear
a conflict between her sister and Jasper.

Almost at the same moment a diversion was afforded by the arrival of the
post. There was a letter for Mrs Milvain, a letter and newspaper for
her son. Whilst the girls and their mother talked of unimportant news
communicated by the one correspondent, Jasper read the missive addressed
to himself.

'This is from Reardon,' he remarked to the younger girl. 'Things are
going badly with him. He is just the kind of fellow to end by poisoning
or shooting himself.'

'But why?'

'Can't get anything done; and begins to be sore troubled on his wife's
account.'

'Is he ill?'

'Overworked, I suppose. But it's just what I foresaw. He isn't the
kind of man to keep up literary production as a paying business. In
favourable circumstances he might write a fairly good book once every
two or three years. The failure of his last depressed him, and now he
is struggling hopelessly to get another done before the winter season.
Those people will come to grief.'

'The enjoyment with which he anticipates it!' murmured Maud, looking at
her mother.

'Not at all,' said Jasper. 'It's true I envied the fellow, because he
persuaded a handsome girl to believe in him and share his risks, but I
shall be very sorry if he goes to the--to the dogs. He's my one serious
friend. But it irritates me to see a man making such large demands upon
fortune. One must be more modest--as I am. Because one book had a sort
of success he imagined his struggles were over. He got a hundred
pounds for "On Neutral Ground," and at once counted on a continuance
of payments in geometrical proportion. I hinted to him that he couldn't
keep it up, and he smiled with tolerance, no doubt thinking "He judges
me by himself." But I didn't do anything of the kind.--(Toast, please,
Dora.)--I'm a stronger man than Reardon; I can keep my eyes open, and
wait.'

'Is his wife the kind of person to grumble?' asked Mrs Milvain.

'Well, yes, I suspect that she is. The girl wasn't content to go into
modest rooms--they must furnish a flat. I rather wonder he didn't start
a carriage for her. Well, his next book brought only another hundred,
and now, even if he finishes this one, it's very doubtful if he'll get
as much. "The Optimist" was practically a failure.'

'Mr Yule may leave them some money