weeks had to be lost at sea,
and yet the book be published in the sacred season of autumn, nine short
months hence.

The publisher was restive and Hugh desperate.

He had sworn to himself this afternoon nearly as fiercely as Pauline had
that he would not leave the room until he "got it right." Pauline was
granted the relief of tears. Hugh could only give vent to his tumult of
mind by tearing off his collar and hurling it into one corner of the
room, peeling off his coat and flinging it under his table, and kicking
off his white canvas shoes. These last he had purchased from one of the
shoe-makers in the township only this morning, having neglected to put
any footgear at all in his portmanteau. And being only two and
elevenpence--none better were kept in stock--the shoes were badly cut
and pinched him atrociously.

One at present reposed, sole upwards, on a chair where it had alighted
after a vigorous aerial flight, and the other stood its ground in the
middle of the floor.

And this was the manner of author Miss Bibby found herself suddenly shut
up with for an interview destined for the _Evening Mail!_

Hugh spun round in his chair at Kate's bland voice. He probably imagined
he was in his revolving-chair at home, but he was not, and the frail
article beneath him, unused to gyration upon one leg, gave way instantly
and all but precipitated him at full length before his visitor.

Max, who an hour before had impugned the butcher's impurity of language,
would have found that in some respects a butcher and an author were men
and brothers.

[Illustration: "Hugh spun round in his chair at Kate's bland voice"]

There was only one word; but the vigorous deliverance of it made Miss
Bibby catch her breath and clasp her hands.

"I have startled you, madam," said Hugh, facing the "limp lavender lady"
as he had called her to Kate; "and I ought to apologize, I am aware, but
I don't. I would have apologized had I been betrayed to it in a
drawing-room. But this is my work-room, _where I see nobody_." The last
four words were almost thundered.

Agnes Bibby was praying--actually praying for courage. Her throat was
working, her grey eyes had their most startled look. She was twisting
her hands nervously together.

Hugh was not in the least conscience-stricken at her evident lack of
composure.

He seriously considered for one second the expediency of repeating the
word, and adding a few others to it, and so scaring the laven