Julia's lips were tightly compressed. She made no reply. Mr. Foley glanced back at her curiously as they stepped into the car. "What a singularly forbidding young woman!" he remarked. Elisabeth shrugged her shoulders. It is given to women to understand much! . . . The car glided off. As they neared the corner of the Square, they passed a stout, foreign-looking man with an enormous head, a soft grey hat set far back, a quantity of fair hair, and the ingenuous, eager look of a child. He was hurrying towards the corner house and scarcely glanced in their direction. Mr. Foley, however, leaned forward with interest. "Who is that strange-looking person?" Elisabeth asked. Mr. Foley became impressive. "One of the greatest writers and philosophers of the day," he replied. "I expect he is on his way to see Maraton. That was Henry Selingman." CHAPTER XXVIII Selingman took little heed of the cordon around Maraton. He brushed them all to one side, and when at last confronted by the final barrier, in the shape of Julia, he only patted her gently upon the back. "Ah, but my dear child," he exclaimed, "you do not understand! Listen. I raise my voice, I shout--like this--'Maraton, it is I who am here--Selingman!' You see, he will come if he is within hearing. You know of me, you pale-faced child? You have heard of Selingman, is it not so?" Before Julia could answer, the door of the study was opened. "Come in," Maraton called out from an invisible place. Selingman, with a little bow of triumph to Julia, passed down the passage and into the library. He threw his hat upon the sofa and held out both his hands to Maraton. Julia, who had followed him, sank into a chair before her typewriter. "I have made you famous, my friend," he declared. "You may quote these words in after life as representing the full sublimity of my conceit, but it is true. Have you read my 'Appreciation' in the _Oracle?_" "I have," Maraton admitted, smiling. "The real thing," Selingman continued, "crisp and crackling with genius. As they read it, the photographers took down their cameras, the editors whispered to their journalists to be off to Russell Square, the ladies began to pen their cards of invitation." "That's all very well," Maraton remarked, a little grimly, "but where do I come in? I have no time for the journalists, I refuse to be photographed, and I am not likely to accept the invitations. It takes my two secretaries half their time to wade through my correspondence and to decide which of it is to be pitched into the waste-paper basket. I am not a dealer in quack remedies, or an actor. I don't want advertisement." "Pooh, my friend!--pooh!" Selingman retorted, drawing out his worn leather case and thrusting one of the long black cigars into his mouth. "Everything that is spontaneous in life is good for you--even advertisement. But listen to my news. It is great news, believe me. . . . A match, please."