ver had as yet, and would
receive at last, or, if they did not, it would only be because the
reputation he had appropriated would procure them a ready acceptance
without any such preliminary ordeal. The great point gained was that
they would be published, and after that he feared nothing.

If anything whispered to him that he might have accomplished even this
by honourable means; that in time and with economy he could have
produced them at his own expense; that perhaps a little more
perseverance might even have discovered a firm with sufficient faith
to take the risk upon themselves; if these doubts suggested themselves
to him he had little difficulty in arguing them down. They might have
had some weight once, but they came too late; the thing was done now
and could never be recalled; his whole interest lay in persuading
himself that what he had done was the only thing that could be done,
unless he was content to resign his ambition for ever, and Mark
succeeded in persuading himself of this.

Very soon his chief feeling was one of impatience for Holroyd's book
to come out and make way for his own: then any self-reproach he might
still feel would be drowned in a sense of triumph which would justify
the means he had taken; so he waited eagerly for the arrival of the
first proofs.

They arrived at last. As he came back one evening to Malakoff Terrace,
Trixie ran to meet him, holding up two tightly rolled parcels, with a
great curiosity in her eyes. 'They came this afternoon,' she
whispered, 'and oh, Mark, I couldn't help it; I tore one end a little
and peeped; are they really part of a book--is it _yours_?'

Mark thought he had better accustom himself to this kind of thing as
early as possible. 'Yes, Trixie,' he said, 'they're the first proofs
of my book.'

'O-oh!' cried Trixie, with a gasp of delight, 'not "Sweet Bells
Jangled," Mark?'

'No, _not_ "Sweet Bells Jangled," it--it's a book you don't know
about--a little thing I don't expect very much from, but my publishers
seem to like it, and I can follow it up with the "Bells" afterwards.'

He was turning over the rough greyish pages as he spoke, and Trixie
was peeping greedily at them, too, with her pretty chin dug into his
shoulder.

'And did you really write all that?' she said; 'how interesting it
looks, you clever boy! You _might_ have told me you were doing it,
though. What's it about?'

'How can I tell you before I know myself,' said Mark, quite forgetti