This unreasonable person dispatched, and the illustrious artist's doubts about his lights and shadows dispelled, Alec Feilding resumed his interrupted task. That is to say, he took the manuscript out of the drawer and went on laboriously copying it. So great a writer, whose time was so precious, might surely give out his copying work. Lesser men do this. For half an hour he worked on. Then the servant tapped at the door and came in again, noiselessly as before, to whisper a name. Alec nodded, and once more put back the manuscript in the drawer. The visitor was a young lady. She was of slight and slender figure, dressed quite plainly, and even poorly, in a cloth jacket and a stuff frock. Her gloves were shabby. Her features were fine but not beautiful, the eyes bright, and the mouth mobile, but the forehead too large for beauty. She carried a black leather roll such as those who teach music generally carry about with them. She was quite young, certainly not more than two-and-twenty. 'Effie?' He looked round, surprised. 'May I come in for two minutes? I will not stay longer. Indeed, I should be so sorry to waste your time.' 'I am sure you would, Effie.' He gave her his hand, without rising. 'Precious time--my time--there is so little of it. Therefore, child----' 'I have brought you,' she said, 'another little poem. I think it is the kind of thing you like--in the _vers de société_ style. She unrolled her leather case and took out a very neatly written paper. He read it slowly. Then he nodded his head approvingly and read it aloud. 'How long does it take you to knock off this kind of thing, Effie?' 'It took me the whole of yesterday. This morning I corrected it and copied it out. Do you like it?' 'You are a clever little animal, Effie, and you shall make your fortune. Yes; it is very good, very good indeed: Austin Dobson himself is not better. It is very good: light, tripping, graceful--in good taste. It is very good indeed. Leave it with me, Effie. If I like it as well to-morrow as I do to-day, you may depend upon seeing it in the next number.' 'Oh!' she blushed a rosy red with the pleasure of being praised. Indeed, it is a pleasure which never palls. The old man who has been praised all his life is just as eager for more as the young poet who is only just beginning. 'Oh! you really think it is good?' 'I do indeed. The best proof is that I am going to buy it of you. It shall go into the editor's column--my own column--in the place of honour.' 'Yes,' she replied, but doubtfully--and she reddened again for a different reason. 'Oh, Mr. Feilding,' she said with an effort, 'I am so happy when I see my verses in print--in your paper--even without my name. It makes me so proud that I hardly dare to say what I want.' 'Say it, Effie. Get it off your mind. You will feel better afterwards.'