"And I," said the parson, "should like to have mine before Easter, but have one I must." Mr. Leveridge's state now was worse than the first. One or other of his creatures was ever watching him. His every movement was spied on. There was no escaping their vigilance. Sometimes they attended him in groups of two or three; sometimes they were all around him. At meals not one was missing, and they eyed every mouthful of his food as he raised it to his lips. His mother saw nothing--the creations were invisible to all eyes save those of their creator. If he went out for a country walk, they trotted forth with him, some before, looking round at every turn to see which way he purposed going, some following. Poppy and the skittish widow managed to attach themselves to him, one on each side. "I hate that little woman," said Poppy. "Why did you call her into being?" [Illustration: IF HE WENT OUT FOR A WALK THEY TROTTED FORTH WITH HIM, SOME BEFORE, SOME FOLLOWING.] "I never dreamed that things would come to this pass." "I am convinced, creator dear, that there is a vein of wickedness in your composition, or you would never have imagined such a minx, good and amiable and butter-won't-melt-in-your-mouth though you may look. And there must be a frolicsome devil in your heart, or I should never have become." "Indeed, Poppy, I am very glad that I gave you being. But one may have too much even of a good thing, and there are moments when I could dispense with your presence." "I know, when you want to carry on with the widow. She is always casting sheep's eyes at you." "But, Poppy, you forget my hero, whom I created on purpose for you." "All my attention is now engrossed in you, and will be till you provide me with a body." When Leveridge was in his room reading, if he raised his eyes from his book they met the stare of one of his characters. If he went up to his bedroom, he was followed. If he sat with his mother, one kept guard. This was become so intolerable, that one evening he protested to the stockbroker, who was then in attendance. "Do, I entreat you, leave me to myself. You treat me as if I were a lunatic and about to commit _felo de se_, and you were my warders." "We watch you, sir," said the stockbroker, "in our own interest. We cannot suffer you to give us the slip. We are all expectant and impatient for the completion of what you have begun." Then the parson undertook to administer a lecture on Duty, on responsibilities contracted to those called into partial existence by a writer of fiction. He cannot be allowed to half do his work. His creations must be realised, and can only be realised by being given a material existence. "But what the dickens can I do? I cannot fabricate bodies for you. I never in my life even made a doll." "Have you no thought of dramatising us?" "I know no dramatic writers." "Do it yourself." "Does not this sort of work require a certain familiarity with the technique of the stage which I do not possess?"