"And he is right. I neither inculcate nor do I condemn. I only produce,
or try to produce, a work of art. You admire the chapter? You think it
truly dramatic?"

"Indeed I do--that's just why I am afraid of it."

"Little timorous bird."

He came over to the sofa and kissed her tenderly. She shivered. She
thought his lips had never been dry and cold like that before.

The book was finished by the end of the summer. It was published in
November and created a considerable sensation. Mark issued it under the
name of "William Foster." Only Catherine and his friend Frederic Berrand
knew who William Foster really was. The newspapers praised the
workmanship of the book almost universally. But many of them severely
condemned it as dangerous, morbidly imaginative, horrible in subject,
and likely to do great mischief because of its undoubted power and
charm. It was forbidden at some libraries.

Mark was delighted with its reception. Now, that he had brought forth
his child, he seemed more light-hearted, gay and boyish than ever. His
too vivid imagination had been toiling. It rested now. Catherine and he
came up to town for the winter. They meant to spend only their summers
in Surrey. They took a house in Chester Street, and often dined with the
Ardaghs in Eaton Square. At one of these dinners Jenny Levita was
present. Mark, remembering what Catherine had told him about her in
Surrey, looked at her with some interest, and talked to her a little in
his most light-hearted way. She replied briefly and without much
apparent animation, seeming indeed rather absent-minded and distraite.
Presently Mr. Ardagh said,

"This new man, William Foster, is that very rare thing in England--a
pitiless artist. He has the audacity of genius and the fine
impersonality."

Catherine started and flushed violently. As she did so she saw Jenny's
long dark eyes fixed earnestly upon her. Mark smiled slightly. Mrs.
Ardagh looked pained.

"His book is doing frightful harm, I am sure," she said.

"Nonsense, my dear," said her husband. "Nothing so absolutely right, so
absolutely artistic, can do harm."

An obstinate expression came into Mrs. Ardagh's face, but she said
nothing. Catherine looked down at her plate. She felt as if small
needles were pricking her all over.

"Have you read the book?" said Mr. Ardagh to his wife.

"Yes," she replied. "It was recommended to me, I began it not knowing
what sort of book it was."

"And did you finish i