e I'm such an arrant donkey as to set
any store by fame!" cried Lovelace, a broad smile lighting up his face
and eyes. "Why, because a few people read my books and are amused
thereby,--and because the Press pats me graciously on the back, and says
metaphorically, 'Well done, little 'un!' or words to that effect, am I
to go crowing about the world as if I were the only literary
chanticleer? My dear friend, have you read 'Esdras'? You will find there
that a certain king of Persia wrote to one 'Rathumus, a story-writer.'
No doubt he was famous in his day, but,--to travesty _hamlet_, 'where be
his stories now?' Learn, from the deep oblivion into which poor
Rathumus's literary efforts have fallen, the utter mockery and
uselessness of so-called _fame_!"

"But there must be a certain pleasure in it while you're alive to enjoy
it," said Lord Winsleigh. "Surely you derive some little satisfaction
from your celebrity, Mr. Lovelace?"

Beau broke into a laugh, mellow, musical, and hearty.

"A satisfaction shared with murderers, thieves, divorced women,
dynamiters, and other notorious people in general," he said. "They're
all talked about--so am I. They all get written about--so do I. My
biography is always being carefully compiled by newspaper authorities,
to the delight of the reading public. Only the other day I learned for
the first time that my father was a greengrocer, who went in for selling
coals by the half-hundred and thereby made his fortune--my mother was an
unsuccessful oyster-woman who failed ignominiously at Margate--moreover,
I've a great many brothers and sisters of tender age whom I absolutely
refuse to assist. I've got a wife somewhere, whom my literary success
causes me to despise--and I have deserted children. I'm charmed with,
the accuracy of the newspapers--and I wouldn't contradict them for the
world,--I find my biographies so original! They are the result of that
celebrity which Winsleigh thinks enjoyable."

"But assertions of that kind are libels," said Errington, "You could
prosecute."

"Too much trouble!" declared Beau. "Besides, five journals have
disclosed the name of the town where I was born, and as they all
contradict each other, and none of them are right, any contradiction on
_my_ part would be superfluous!"

They laughed,--and at that moment Lady Winsleigh joined them.

"Are you not catching cold, Thelma?" she inquired sweetly. "Sir Philip,
you ought to make her put on something warm,--I f