s a case too hopeless to merit further attention at my
hands."

The young man's cheek glowed with pleasure.

"That is more like it," he said. "When do you think I shall be able to
meet this young lady?"

"Within a week or two, at the latest. I must sound her before I trust
you with her, for she is nearly as much a stranger to me, so far, as to
you. Of course there is no objection--quite the contrary--to your
falling in love elsewhere in the meantime, if opportunity serves."

At this moment Mr. Weil called his companion's attention to a rather
corpulent gentleman who had just entered the breakfast room and was
stopping near the door to hold a brief conversation with some one he had
met there.

"You see that fellow?" he remarked. "Wait a minute, and I will get him
over here. If you ever want to put a real character into one of your
stories you will only need to take his photograph. In actual life he is
as dull as a rusty meat axe, but for literary purposes he would be a
godsend."

Catching the eye of the person of whom he was speaking, Mr. Weil
motioned to him to come to his part of the room, and as he approached
arranged a chair for him invitingly.

"Mr. Boggs, I want to present a young friend of mine to you," said
Archie, rising. "Mr. Walker Boggs--Mr. Shirley Roseleaf."

Mr. Boggs went through the usual ceremony, announcing that he was most
happy, etc., in the perfunctory style that a million other men follow
every day. Then he took the chair that was offered him, and gave an
order for his breakfast to a waiter.

"Are you a New Yorker, Mr. Roseleaf?" he asked, when this important
matter was disposed of.

"Mr. Roseleaf is staying here for the present," explained Mr. Weil. "He
is a novelist by profession, and I tell him there is no better place to
study the sensational than this vicinity."

The young man's color deepened. He doubted if it was right to introduce
the subject in exactly these terms. Mr. Boggs' next question did not
detract from his uneasiness.

"Excuse me--I am not altogether up in current literature, and I must ask
what Mr. Roseleaf has written."

Mr. Weil helped his young friend out of this dilemma as well as he
could.

"He has written nothing, as yet; at least nothing that has been
printed," he said. "He is wise, I think, in laying a deep foundation for
his romances, instead of rushing into print with the first thoughts that
enter his head, as so many do, to their own subsequent regret