not, by some unfortunate oversight,
forgotten to append her name and address.

The next stage in the career of the book was a discovery on someone's
part that the name of its author was an assumed one, and although
there are many who would as little think of looking for the name of
the man who wrote the play they see or the book they read as they
would for that of the locomotive behind which they travel, there are
still circles for whom the first two matters at least possess an
interest.

And so several set out to run the actual author to earth, well assured
that, as is fabled of the fox, he himself would enjoy the sport as
much as his pursuers; and it is the fact that Mark might have given
them a much longer run had he been anxious to do so, but, though he
regretted it afterwards, the fruits of popularity were too desirable
to be foregone.

There were some false cries at first. A 'London correspondent' knew
for a fact that the book was written by an old lady at a lunatic
asylum in her lucid intervals; while a ladies' journal had heard that
the author was a common carpenter and entirely self-educated; and
there were other similar discoveries. But before they had time to
circulate widely, it became somehow common knowledge that the author
was a young schoolmaster, and that his real name was Mark Ashburn.

And Mark at once began to reap the benefit. His old friends sought him
out once more; men who had passed him in the streets with a careless
nod that was almost as bad as a cut direct, or without even the
smallest acknowledgment that a time had been when they were
inseparables, now found time to stop him and ask if the rumours of his
_debut_ in literature were really true.

By-and-by cards began to line his mantelpiece as in the old days; he
went out once more, and met everywhere the kindness and courtesy that
the world of London, whatever may be said against it, is never chary
of showing towards the most insignificant person who has once had the
good fortune to arouse its interest.

Mark liked it all at first, but as he saw the book growing more and
more in favour, and the honours paid to himself increasing, he began
to be uneasy at his own success.

He would not have objected to the book's securing a moderate degree of
attention, so as to prepare the public mind for the blaze of intellect
he had in reserve for it--that he had expected, or at least hoped
for--but the mischief of this ridiculous enthusiasm whic