By the side of the table were six or seven thick pasteboard cards, each about the size of a large portfolio, and on these the author's notes and extracts were collected from all his repertories into something like a focus for a present purpose. He was writing a novel based on facts; facts, incidents, living dialogue, pictures, reflections, situations, were all on these cards to choose from, and arranged in headed columns; and some portions of the work he was writing on this basis of imagination and drudgery lay on the table in two forms, his own writing, and his secretary's copy thereof, the latter corrected for the press. This copy was half margin, and so provided for additions and improvements; but for one addition there were ten excisions, great and small. Lady Bassett had just time to take in the beauty and artistic character of the place, and to realize the appalling drudgery that stamped it a workshop, when the author, who had dashed into his garden for a moment's recreation, came to the window, and furnished contrast No. 3. For he looked neither like a poet nor a drudge, but a great fat country farmer. He was rather tall, very portly, smallish head, commonplace features mild brown eye not very bright, short beard, and wore a suit of tweed all one color. Such looked the writer of romances founded on fact. He rolled up to the window--for, if he looked like a farmer, he walked like a sailor--and stepped into the room. CHAPTER XXIII. MR. ROLFE surveyed the two women with a mild, inoffensive, ox-like gaze, and invited them to be seated with homely civility. He sat down at his desk, and turning to Lady Bassett, said, rather dreamily, “One moment, please: let me look at the case and my notes.” First his homely appearance, and now a certain languor about his manner, discouraged Lady Bassett more than it need; for all artists must pay for their excitements with occasional languor. Her hands trembled, and she began to gulp and try not to cry. Mr. Rolfe observed directly, and said, rather kindly, “You are agitated; and no wonder.” He then opened a sort of china closet, poured a few drops of a colorless liquid from a tiny bottle into a wine-glass, and filled the glass with water from a filter. “Drink that, if you please.” She looked at him with her eyes brimming. _“Must_ I?” “Yes; it will do you good for once in a way. It is only Ignatia.” She drank it by degrees, and a tear along with it that fell into the glass. Meantime Mr. Rolfe had returned to his notes and examined them. He then addressed her, half stiffly, half kindly: