"Just going. Mr. Hume and I have been talking." "About the affairs of the nation," said Philip. "But I'm off now. Good-night, Dale." Dale looked closely at her. "What are your eyes red for? Have you been crying?" "_Crying_, Dale? What nonsense! I've been roasting them before the fire, that's all; and if they are red, it's not polite to say so, is it, Mr. Hume?" "Rightly understood, criticism is a compliment, as the reviewers say when they slate you," remarked Philip. "He might not have noticed your eyes at all." "Inconceivable," said Dale politely, for he was feeling very kindly disposed to this pretty girl, who came when he wanted her, and went when--well, after a reasonably long visit. "Good-night, Dale. I'm so sorry about--Mr. Roberts, you know." Dale, having no further use for this grievance, was graciously pleased to let it be forgotten. "Oh, you couldn't know he'd be such a brute. Good-night, Nellie." The two men returned to the smoking room. Philip, looking for a piece of paper wherewith to light his pipe, happened to notice a little bundle of proof-sheets lying on the table. "Ah, the spring bubbling again?" he asked. Dale nodded. "My dear fellow, how are the rest of us to get our masterpieces noticed? You are a monopolist." "It's only a little volume." "What's it about? May I look?" "Oh, if you like," answered Dale carelessly; but he kept his eye on his friend. Philip took up the first sheet, and read the title-page; he smiled, and, turning over, came to the dedication. "You call it 'Amor Patriæ?'" "Yes. Do you like the title?" "Hum! There was no thought of pleasing me when it was christened, I presume. And you dedicate it----" "Oh, is that there?" "Yes, that's there--'_To her that shall be named hereafter._'" Dale poked the fire before he answered. "Yes," he said, "that's the dedication." "So I see. Well, I hope she'll like them. It is an enviable privilege to confer immortality." "I'll confer it on you, if you like." "Yes, do. It will be less trouble than getting it for myself." "Under the title of 'The Snarler.'" Philip stood on the hearthrug and warmed himself. "My dear Dale," he said, "I do not snarl. A wise author pleases each section of the public in turn. Hitherto you have pleased me and my kind, and Roberts and his kind, and Arthur Angell and his kind--who are, by the way, not worth pleasing, for they expect presentation copies. Now, in this new work, which is, I understand, your tribute to the nation which has the honor to bear you, you will please----" He paused. "I always write to please myself," said Dale. "Yourself," continued Philip, "this mysterious lady, and, I think we may add, the Mayor of Market Denborough." "Go to the devil!" said the poet. CHAPTER XII. =A Dedication--and a Desecration.= A few weeks later the Mayor stood at his door, one bright morning in January, holding a parley with Alderman Johnstone.