means or another, I contrive to get six chapters out of that shipwreck, which is followed by two chapters of agony in an open boat, which I treat as if it were a novelty in fiction, and that, again, leads up to a chapter on the uncertainty of life. Most flagrant padding of all is the conversation. It always takes my characters at least two pages to say anything. They approach the point in this fashion: Tom walked excitedly into the room, in which Peter was awaiting him. The two men looked at each other. "You wanted to see me," Tom said at last. "Yes," said Peter slowly, "I wanted to see you." Tom looked at the other uneasily. "Why did you want to see me?" he asked after a pause. "I shall tell you," replied Peter, pointing to a chair. Tom sat down, and seemed about to speak. But he changed his mind. Peter looked at him curiously. "Perhaps," Peter said at last, "you know my reasons for requesting an interview with you here?" "I cannot say that I do," answered Tom. There was another pause, during which the ticking of the clock could be distinctly heard. "You have no idea?" inquired Peter. "I have no idea," replied Tom. "Do you remember," asked the older man, a little nervously, "that when old John Vansittart disappeared so suddenly from the Grange there were some persons who believed that he had been foully murdered?" Tom passed his hand through his hair. "John Vansittart," he muttered to himself. "The affair," continued Peter, "was never cleared up." "It was never cleared up," said Tom. "But why," he added, "do you return to this subject?" "You may well ask," said Peter, "why I return to it."