hall look for your name in the magazines, Miss Yule.'

'Oh, I don't think you will ever find it there.'

He laughed incredulously, shook hands with her a second time, and strode
out of the room, head erect--feeling proud of himself.

When Dora came home at dinner-time, he informed her of what he had done.

'A very interesting girl,' he added impartially. 'I advise you to make
a friend of her. Who knows but you may live in London some day, and then
she might be valuable--morally, I mean. For myself, I shall do my best
not to see her again for a long time; she's dangerous.'

Jasper was unaccompanied when he went to the station. Whilst waiting on
the platform, he suffered from apprehension lest Alfred Yule's seamed
visage should present itself; but no acquaintance approached him. Safe
in the corner of his third-class carriage, he smiled at the last glimpse
of the familiar fields, and began to think of something he had decided
to write for The West End.

CHAPTER IV. AN AUTHOR AND HIS WIFE

Eight flights of stairs, consisting alternately of eight and nine steps.
Amy had made the calculation, and wondered what was the cause of this
arrangement. The ascent was trying, but then no one could contest the
respectability of the abode. In the flat immediately beneath resided a
successful musician, whose carriage and pair came at a regular hour each
afternoon to take him and his wife for a most respectable drive. In this
special building no one else seemed at present to keep a carriage, but
all the tenants were gentlefolk.

And as to living up at the very top, why, there were distinct
advantages--as so many people of moderate income are nowadays hastening
to discover. The noise from the street was diminished at this height; no
possible tramplers could establish themselves above your head; the air
was bound to be purer than that of inferior strata; finally, one had
the flat roof whereon to sit or expatiate in sunny weather. True that a
gentle rain of soot was wont to interfere with one's comfort out there
in the open, but such minutiae are easily forgotten in the fervour of
domestic description. It was undeniable that on a fine day one enjoyed
extensive views. The green ridge from Hampstead to Highgate, with
Primrose Hill and the foliage of Regent's Park in the foreground; the
suburban spaces of St John's Wood, Maida Vale, Kilburn; Westminster
Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, lying low by the side of the hidden
river, and