'There!' he said, 'if Miss Effie Wilmot should have the audacity to claim these things as her own, at least I have the originals in my own handwriting--with my own corrections upon them, too, as they were sent to the printer. Yes, Effie, my dear; some day perhaps your verses shall appear with your name to them. Not while they are so good, though. I only wish they were a little more masculine.' Again he lugged out that manuscript, and resumed his copying, laboriously toiling on. The clock ticked, and the ashes dropped, and the silence was profound while he performed this intellectual feat. At the stroke of noon the servant disturbed him a third time. He put away his work in the drawer, and went out to meet this visitor. This time it was none other than a Lady of Quality--a Grande Dame de par le monde. She came in splendid attire, sailing into the studio like some richly adorned pinnace or royal yacht. A lady of a certain age, but still comely in the eyes of man. 'Lady Frances!' cried Alec. 'This is, indeed, unexpected. And you know that it is the greatest honour for me to wait upon you.' 'Yes, yes; I know that. But I thought I should like to see you as you are--in your own studio. So I came. I hope not at an inconvenient time.' 'No time could be inconvenient for a visit from you.' 'I don't know. Your model might be sitting to you. To be sure, you are not a figure-painter. But one always supposes that models are standing to artists all day long. Good-looking women, too, I believe. Perhaps you have got one hidden away behind the screen, just as they do on the stage. I will look.' She put up her glasses and walked across the room to look behind the screen. 'No: she has gone. Oh! is this your new picture?' He bowed. 'I hope you like it.' 'I do,' she said, looking at it. 'It seems to me the very best thing you have done. Oh! it is really beautiful! Do you know, Mr. Feilding, that you are a very wonderful man?' Alec laughed pleasantly. Of course he knew. 'If you think so,' he said. 'You write the most beautiful verses and the most charming stories: you paint the most wonderful pictures: you belong to society, and you go everywhere. How do you do it? How do you find time to do it? I suppose you never want any sleep? Poet, painter, novelist, journalist! Are you a sculptor as well, by chance?' 'Not yet. Perhaps----' 'Glutton! Are you a dramatist?' 'Again--not yet. Perhaps, some time---- 'Insatiate! You are a Master of all the Arts. Alec Feilding, M.A.' He laughed pleasantly, again. 'You are the cleverest man in all London. Well; I sent you another story yesterday----' 'You did. I was about to write and thank you for it. Is it a true story?' 'Quite true. It happened in my husband's family, thirty years ago. They are not very proud of it. You can dress it up somehow with new names.' 'Quite so. I shall rewrite the whole.'