was agony too, she found _him_. This was his book.
No one but Rupert could have written it--all that description of the
park, and the race when she rode the goat and he rode the pig--and--she
turned the pages hastily. Ah yes, Rupert had written this! She put the
book down and she dressed herself as prettily as she knew how, and she
went in a hansom cab to the office of the publisher of that book, and on
the way she read. And more and more she saw how great a book it was, and
how no one but Rupert could have written just that book. Thrill after
thrill of pride ran through her. He had done this _for her_--because of
what she had said.

Arrived at the publisher's, she was met by a blank wall. Neither partner
was visible. The senior clerk did not know the address of the author of
"Work While it is Yet Day," nor the name of him; and it was abundantly
evident that even if he had known, he would not have told.

Sybil's prettiness and her charm so wrought upon this dry-as-dust
person, however, that he volunteered the address of the literary agent
through whom the book had been purchased. And Sybil found him on a first
floor in one of those imposing new buildings in Arundel Street. He was
very nice and kind, but he could not give his client's name without his
client's permission.

The disappointment was bitter.

"But I'll send a letter for you," he tried to soften it with.

Sybil's self-control almost gave way. A tear glistened on her veil.

"I do want to see him most awfully," she said, "and I know he wants to
see me. It was I who rode the goat in the book, you know----"

She did not realise how much she was admitting, but the literary agent
did.

"Look here," he said smartly, "I'll wire to him at once; and if he says
I may, I'll give you the address. Can you call in an hour?"

Sybil wandered on the Embankment for a conscientious hour, and then went
back.

The literary agent smiled victory.

"The answer is 'Yes,'" he said, and handed her a slip of paper--

"THREE CHIMNEYS,
NEAR PADDOCK WOOD,
KENT."

"Have you a time-table?" asked she.

* * * * *

The dusty, hired fly lumbered and jolted along the white roads, and in
it, as in the train, Sybil read the novel, the book every one was
talking about--the great book--and her heart was full to overflowing of
joy and pride and other things.

The carriage shook itself fiercely and stopped, and she