eve his
own written word,--that he will be back with us before Sunday. I don't
think he means to leave you altogether in such an abrupt way,--that
would be churlish and ungrateful--and I'm sure he is neither."

"Oh, he's anything but churlish!" she answered quickly. "He has always
been most thoughtful and kind to me; and as for gratitude!--why, the
poor old dear makes too much of it altogether--one would think I had
given him a fortune instead of just taking common human care of him. I
expect he must have worked in some very superior house of business, for
though he's so poor, he has all the ways of a gentleman."

"What are the ways of a gentleman, my Mary?" demanded Angus, gaily. "Do
you know? I mean, do you know what they are nowadays? To stick a cigar
in one's mouth and smoke it all the time a woman is present--to keep
one's hat on before her, and to talk to her in such a loose, free and
easy fashion as might bring one's grandmother out of her grave and make
her venerable hair curl! Those are the 'ways' of certain present-time
'gentlemen' who keep all the restaurants and music-halls of London
going--and I don't rank good old David with these. I know what _you_
mean--you mean that he has all the fine feeling, delicacy and courtesy
of a gentleman, as 'gentlemen' used to be before our press was degraded
to its present level by certain clowns and jesters who make it their
business to jeer at every "gentlemanly" feeling that ever inspired
humanity--yes, I understand! He is a gentleman of the old
school,--well,--I think he is--and I think he would always be that, if
he tramped the road till he died. He must have seen better days."

"Oh yes, I'm sure of that!" said Mary. "So many really capable men get
turned out of work because they are old----"

"Well, there's one advantage about my profession," interrupted Angus.
"No one can turn _me_ out of literature either for young or old age, if
I choose to make a name in it! Think of that, my Mary! The glorious
independence of it! An author is a law unto himself, and if he succeeds,
he is the master of his own fate. Publishers are his humble
servants--waiting eagerly to snatch up his work that they may get all
they can for themselves out of it,--and the public--the great public
which, apart from all 'interested' critical bias, delivers its own
verdict, is always ready to hearken and to applaud the writer of its
choice. There is no more splendid and enviable life!--if I could onl