And now Hugh heaved a sigh of relief and settled down in better heart to
his work. He took out a fresh writing-block and firmly and with
inspiring assurance inscribed upon it the number of his chapter.

But after regarding this effort with an uplifted look for a second or
two his eye fell upon the letters beside him that Kate had laid down.

Now there is something insidiously insistent about the morning post when
one is away from all the other corrupting effects of the civilization of
cities.

Hugh knew perfectly well that he was trembling on the verge of his
precipice when he let his eye linger upon the envelopes; he knew
perfectly well that the act of opening one would send his already nearly
maddened Muse clean out of the window for the rest of the morning. But
yet he dallied.

It was more than possible that there was a highly important letter
there, and two or three hours' delay in opening would mean a serious
loss. His last story, for instance, that his London agent was
serializing in several countries--yes, it was quite possible some
instant information was wanted about it. Or that tale he had offered to
an American magazine--probably there was news about it here; it was a
decent story too, he would like to find out if it had been appreciated.
And then there were those shares he had taken in that Transvaal concern,
suppose news had come of a fall or rise in them? He would not listen to
the cold-headed remembrance that whispered that no English, nor
American, nor African mail was due to-day. It was perfectly possible
that in an undermanned country post office like this these important
letters had been left over since last mail and only just delivered. It
was really highly important that he should make sure.

He drew the little stack of envelopes towards him and tilted comfortably
back while he opened them.

He owed his tailor thirteen pounds eleven and six, he discovered. He
discovered that by employing the Reliance Carpet Company his Axminster
carpets would be entirely freed from dust and in such a way that he need
fear no microbes for his nursery.

The Mission to the Chinese of Wexford Street, and Lower George Street,
would be glad of a subscription from him, he learnt.

A Consumptive Hospital, a Creche for Neglected Infants, a Convalescent
Home, an Inebriates' Retreat all had a similar use for him. While
slightly more cheerful, if less urgently necessary methods of spending
his money were suggested by