ghts me to
be generous, whenever I can afford it.'

Dusk was gathering about them. As they sat talking, there came a tap at
the door, and the summons to enter was obeyed by Mr Whelpdale.

'I was passing,' he said in his respectful voice, 'and couldn't resist
the temptation.'

Jasper struck a match and lit the lamp. In this clearer light Whelpdale
was exhibited as a young man of greatly improved exterior; he wore a
cream-coloured waistcoat, a necktie of subtle hue, and delicate gloves;
prosperity breathed from his whole person. It was, in fact, only a
moderate prosperity to which he had as yet attained, but the future
beckoned to him flatteringly.

Early in this year, his enterprise as 'literary adviser' had brought
him in contact with a man of some pecuniary resources, who proposed to
establish an agency for the convenience of authors who were not skilled
in disposing of their productions to the best advantage. Under the name
of Fleet & Co., this business was shortly set on foot, and Whelpdale's
services were retained on satisfactory terms. The birth of the syndicate
system had given new scope to literary agencies, and Mr Fleet was a man
of keen eye for commercial opportunities.

'Well, have you read Biffen's book?' asked Jasper.

'Wonderful, isn't it! A work of genius, I am convinced. Ha! you have it
there, Miss Dora. But I'm afraid it is hardly for you.'

'And why not, Mr Whelpdale?'

'You should only read of beautiful things, of happy lives. This book
must depress you.'

'But why will you imagine me such a feeble-minded person?' asked Dora.
'You have so often spoken like this. I have really no ambition to be a
doll of such superfine wax.'

The habitual flatterer looked deeply concerned.

'Pray forgive me!' he murmured humbly, leaning forwards towards the girl
with eyes which deprecated her displeasure. 'I am very far indeed from
attributing weakness to you. It was only the natural, unreflecting
impulse; one finds it so difficult to associate you, even as merely a
reader, with such squalid scenes.

The ignobly decent, as poor Biffen calls it, is so very far from that
sphere in which you are naturally at home.'

There was some slight affectation in his language, but the tone attested
sincere feeling. Jasper was watching him with half an eye, and glancing
occasionally at Dora.

'No doubt,' said the latter, 'it's my story in The English Girl that
inclines you to think me a goody-goody sort of young woma