stigation of his publisher he had discarded the
baptismal Augustus and taken the front name of Mark.

"Women like a name that suggests some one strong and silent, able but
unwilling to answer questions. Augustus merely suggests idle splendour,
but such a name as Mark Mellowkent, besides being alliterative, conjures
up a vision of some one strong and beautiful and good, a sort of blend of
Georges Carpentier and the Reverend What's-his-name."

One morning in December Augustus sat in his writing-room, at work on the
third chapter of his eighth novel. He had described at some length, for
the benefit of those who could not imagine it, what a rectory garden
looks like in July; he was now engaged in describing at greater length
the feelings of a young girl, daughter of a long line of rectors and
archdeacons, when she discovers for the first time that the postman is
attractive.

"Their eyes met, for a brief moment, as he handed her two circulars and
the fat wrapper-bound bulk of the _East Essex News_. Their eyes met, for
the merest fraction of a second, yet nothing could ever be quite the same
again. Cost what it might she felt that she must speak, must break the
intolerable, unreal silence that had fallen on them. 'How is your
mother's rheumatism?' she said."

The author's labours were cut short by the sudden intrusion of a
maidservant.

"A gentleman to see you, sir," said the maid, handing a card with the
name Caiaphas Dwelf inscribed on it; "says it's important."

Mellowkent hesitated and yielded; the importance of the visitor's mission
was probably illusory, but he had never met any one with the name
Caiaphas before. It would be at least a new experience.

Mr. Dwelf was a man of indefinite age; his high, narrow forehead, cold
grey eyes, and determined manner bespoke an unflinching purpose. He had
a large book under his arm, and there seemed every probability that he
had left a package of similar volumes in the hall. He took a seat before
it had been offered him, placed the book on the table, and began to
address Mellowkent in the manner of an "open letter."

"You are a literary man, the author of several well-known books--"

"I am engage on a book at the present moment--rather busily engaged,"
said Mellowkent, pointedly.

"Exactly," said the intruder; "time with you is a commodity of
considerable importance. Minutes, even, have their value."

"They have," agreed Mellowkent, looking at his watch.

"Tha