more--er sense, eh?"

His hat was over his eyes, Kate could only see his mouth.

"Oh, my little me," said the woman's heart, "the boy is serious!"

She cut up a lettuce before she could trust herself to speak and even
ate a few shreds in her agitation.

When she did speak her tone was motherly.

"Hughie," she said, "they are charming little girls,--for a summer day
on the mountain. But we're in our autumn now, you and I, and for daily
companionship I assure you you would get more satisfaction from Lynn or
Muffie."

The hat was pushed an inch or two lower still.

"K--you're a good sort, of course, but--I get lonely sometimes, girl."

"Yes, yes, boy. God knows it's natural. But--not a pretty butterfly,
Hugh. A woman nearer your own age, dear boy, some one to be a restful
companion for you, able to appreciate your work, and fit in with your
angles instead of your having to attempt to unmake yourself at your age
and fit into hers."

"All right, don't disturb me, I'm going to sleep," said Hugh sulkily.
What was the use of asking a woman's advice on any subject under the
sun?

The escaped caddies brought down more hampers. In the strap of one of
them were the morning letters, forgotten till now.

Hugh opened them irritably, while Kate meekly went on with her task of
making a salad.

She was engaged in the critical operation of squeezing the juice from
her sliced cucumber, by pressing the top plate heavily down on the
bottom one, when the author gave so sudden and strong an exclamation
that she dropped the whole concern.

"What Tommy rot is this?" he demanded of her angrily. "What lunatic
trick have you played me now, Kate? Where's the last number of the
_Melbourne Review_?"

She took the letter from his hand and read it. It was from the editor of
the _Review_, a one time "chief" of Hugh's.

"I enclose you cheque for ten guineas as arranged," it said, "and, of
course, now you're a celebrity, old man, I've had to print it and be
thankful. But you wouldn't have had the cheek to send me a rotter of a
story like that six years ago, and you know it. You want a change,
that's what it is, old man, you're attempting too much. Take a run over
to New Zealand, or go home. And if you've been turning out any more
stories like this choice _Hypocrites_, take my advice and burn 'em
before you blast your brand-new reputation."

"Where's the last _Melbourne Review_, I ask you?" roared Hugh. As if it
were part of Kate's dut