l "Illusion," Mr. Ernstone,'
she said graciously. 'Do you know, I felt when I read your book that
some of my innermost thoughts, my highest aspirations, had been put
into words--and _such_ words--for me! It was soul speaking to soul,
and you get that in so few novels, you know! What a rapture literary
creation is! Don't you feel that? I am sure, even in my own poor
little way--you must know that _I_ have scribbled once upon a
time--even in my own experience, I know what a state of excitement I
got into over my own stories. One's characters get to be actual living
companions to one; they act by themselves, and all one has to do is
just to sit by and look on, and describe.'

This seemed to Mark to prove a vividness of imagination on Mrs.
Featherstone's part to which her literary productions had not, so far
as he knew, done full credit. But he was equal to the occasion.

'Your characters, Mrs. Featherstone, are companions to many more than
their creator. I must confess that I, for one, fell hopelessly in love
with your Gwendoline Vane, in "Mammon and Moonshine."' Mark had once
read a slashing review of a flabby little novel with a wooden heroine
of that name, and turned it to good account now, after his fashion.

'Now, how nice of you to say that,' she said, highly pleased. 'I am
very fond of Gwendoline myself--my ideal, you know. I won't quote that
about "praise from Sir Hubert," because it's so very trite, but I feel
it. But do you _really_ like Gwendoline better than my Magdalen
Harwood, in "Strawberries and Cream."'

Here Mark got into deep water once more; but he was no mean
conversational swimmer, and reached dry land without any unseemly
floundering.

'It has been suggested to me, do you know,' she said when her own
works had been at last disposed of, 'that your "Illusion" would make
such an admirable play; the central motive really so dramatic. Of
course one would have to leave the philosophy out, and all the
beautiful reflections, but the story would be left. Have you ever
thought of dramatising it yourself, Mr. Ashburn?'

Mark had not. 'Ah, well,' she said, 'if ever I have time again to give
to literature, I shall ask your permission to let me see what _I_ can
do with it. I have written some little charades for drawing-room
theatricals, you know, so I am not _quite_ without experience.'

Mark, wondering inwardly how Holroyd would relish this proposal if he
were alive, said that he was sure the story would