"I'll help you!" announced Grizel calmly. "You play with me, and I'll work with you. I've always felt it in me to write a corking novel. We'll collaborate, and make 'em sit up! Present day, of course. I can't contend with any century but my own. _Very_ modern, and up to date, and the heroine lives in Kensington. She must be a duck, Martin! _Is_ she a duck? What colour are her eyes?" "Er--Her eyes are grey--" "Grey as a mountain tarn--" Grizel rolled her own eyes to the ceiling. "Well! It's a useful shade, and affords scope for variety. They can grow black under stress of emotion, and in evening dress when she wants to look her best. And the hero! he'll be my affair, of course. I'll write the man-ey bits, and you'll do the girl--" "You mean--" Grizel waved an imperious hand. "I do _not_! I mean what I say." She screwed up her little face in an expressive _moue_. "Poof! Who knows more about a man in love--you or I? Who'd be fairer to another girl?--If more books were written in that way, they'd be a vast deal truer to life. We'll show 'em! Katrine, congratulate us; our fortune is made." Katrine's smile was a trifle forced. Of course it was nonsense to suppose that Grizel would be allowed to invade the sanctuary of Martin's room; nevertheless, knowing as she did the heights of her visitor's audacity, she felt it her duty to adopt an air of dignified reproof. Martin's work was not a subject for jest, it was a serious affair, with the stages of which his sister was well acquainted. First the stage of restless absent-mindedness, during which it was useless to expect punctuality, or even an appropriately sensible answer to a question; next, a brief period of intoxication when the long-delayed inspiration dawned with a brilliance which promised a glory never before attained; thirdly, the long months of labour and anxiety, in which the early triumph faded to at best a temperate content. Katrine was never admitted into her brother's confidence about his work. He had allowed it to be known that he could not suffer questions or remarks; never once in those eight years had she dared to question concerning a heroine's eyes. Through mental storms and sunshine, she had "sat tight," observant but silent, expressing her sympathy, Martha-like, in soups and sauces. It was not for Grizel to obtrude where she, a sister, might not go. Katrine pushed back her chair, and rose to her feet. "You are talking nonsense, my dear. Come upstairs! You look tired to death, and your hair is coming down. I'll give you a book, and you can sleep or read until it's time to dress. I'll carry your things." She gathered together the scattered hat, gloves, and bag, and led the way upstairs, Grizel trailing slowly in her wake.