'She doesn't _look_ as if she would be easily frightened,' said Aunt Annie. 'However--"seated at a large table littered with legal documents. He was evidently immersed in business, but he was so good as to place himself at my disposal for a few minutes. Mr. Knight is twenty-three years of age. His father was a silk-mercer in Oxford Street, and laid the foundation of the fortunes of the house now known as Duck and Peabody Limited."' 'That's very well put,' said Mrs. Knight. 'Yes, isn't it?' said Aunt Annie, and continued in her precise, even tones: '"'What first gave you the idea of writing, Mr. Knight?' I inquired, plunging at once _in medias res_. Mr. Knight hesitated a few seconds, and then answered: 'I scarcely know. I owe a great deal to my late father. My father, although first and foremost a business man, was devoted to literature. He held that Shakspere, besides being our greatest poet, was the greatest moral teacher that England has ever produced. I was brought up on Shakspere,' said Mr. Knight, smiling. 'My father often sent communications to the leading London papers on subjects of topical interest, and one of my most precious possessions is a collection of these which he himself put into an album.'"' Mrs. Knight removed her spectacles and wiped her eyes. '"'With regard to _Love in Babylon_, the idea came to me--I cannot explain how. And I wrote it while I was recovering from a severe illness----'"' 'I didn't say "severe,"' Henry interjected. 'She's got that wrong.' 'But it _was_ severe, dear,' said Aunt Annie, and once more continued: '"'I should never have written it had it not been for the sympathy and encouragement of my dear mother----'"' At this point Mrs. Knight sobbed aloud, and waved her hand deprecatingly. 'Nay, nay!' she managed to stammer at length. 'Read no more. I can't stand it. I'll try to read it myself to-morrow morning while you're at chapel and all's quiet.' And she cried freely into her handkerchief. Henry and Aunt Annie exchanged glances, and Henry retired to bed with _Home and Beauty_ under his arm. And he read through the entire interview twice, and knew by heart what he had said about his plans for the future, and the state of modern fiction, and the tendency of authors towards dyspepsia, and the question of realism in literature, and the Stream of Trashy Novels Constantly Poured Forth by the Press. The whole thing seemed to him at first rather dignified and effective. He understood that Miss Foster was no common Fleet Street hack. But what most impressed him, and coloured his dreams, was the final sentence: 'As I left Mr. Knight, I could not dismiss the sensation that I had been in the presence of a man who is morally certain, at no distant date, to loom large in the history of English fiction.--FLOSSIE BRIGHTEYE.' A passing remark about his 'pretty suburban home' was the sauce to this dish. CHAPTER XIV HER NAME WAS GERALDINE