fears. If I were to be perfectly honest with them, I should
tell them, perhaps, that disappointed love was the best thing that could
happen to either of them, but, if they insisted on happiness, that a
good broken engagement promised more of it than anything else I could
think of."

"That is true," the girl sighed. "There are a great many unhappy
marriages. Of course, people would say it was _rather_ pessimistic,
wouldn't they?"

"People will say anything. One mustn't mind them. But now I'll tell you
what I've been thinking all the time we've been talking."

"Well? I knew you were not thinking of _my_ nonsense!"

"It was very good nonsense, as nonsense goes, my dear. What I've been
thinking is that I must still have the love interest in my books, and
have it the main interest, but I must treat it from the vantage-ground
of age; it must be something I look back upon, and a little down upon."

"I see what you mean," the girl dissentingly assented.

"I must be in the whole secret--the secret, not merely of my lovers'
love, but the secret of love itself. I must know, and I must subtly
intimate, that it doesn't really matter to anybody how their affair
turns out; for in a few years, twenty or thirty years, it's a thousand
to one that they won't care anything about it themselves. I must
maintain the attitude of the sage, dealing not unkindly but truthfully
with the situation."

"It would be rather sad," the girl murmured. "But one likes sad things."

"When one is young, one does; when one is old, one likes true things.
But, of course, my love-stories would be only for those who have
outlived love. I ought to be fair with my readers, and forewarn them
that my story was not for the young, the hopeful, the happy."

The girl jumped to her feet and stood magnificent. "Uncle! It's grand!"

He rose, too. "What is?" he faltered.

"The idea! Don't you see? You can have the publisher announce it as a
story for the disillusioned, the wretched, and the despairing, and that
would make every girl want it, for that's what every girl thinks she is,
and they would talk to the men about it, and then _they_ would want it,
and it would be the book of the month! Don't say another word. Oh, you
dear!" In spite of the insanitary nature of the action, she caught her
uncle round the neck, and kissed him on his bald spot, and ran out of
the room. She opened the door to call back: "Don't lose a single minute.
Begin it _now_!"

But the Ve