The poet who had published these verses did not change colour or show any sign of emotion in the presence of the poet who had written them. He nodded his head. 'Yes,' he said, 'on a hundred and seventy pounds a year you can live--on seventy you would starve. Where is your brother?' 'He works in his bedroom. It is the room behind, on the same floor. My room is upstairs.' 'He requires, I suppose, good food, wine, and certain luxuries?' 'When we can afford them. Since you took my verses we have been able to buy things.' 'Your money is well expended. I should like to see your brother, Effie.' 'I will take you to him,' she said. But she hesitated and blushed. 'Oh! Mr. Feilding, Archie knows nothing about the--the volumes, you know! He sees only the verses in the paper. And he only knows that you have been so kind as to take them. Don't tell him anything else.' 'Your secret, Effie,' he replied generously, 'is safe with me. He shall not know it from my lips.' She thanked him. Again, it was not until he was gone that Effie remembered that he could not possibly reveal that fact to her brother. She led him into the room, at the back of which was her brother's study and bedroom as well. Her brother might have been herself, save for a slight manly growth upon the upper lip, and for the pale cheek of ill health. The same large forehead overhanging the face, eyes sunken but as bright as his sister's, the same sensitive lips were his. A finer face than his sister's, and stronger, but not so sweet. Beside his chair a pair of crutches proclaimed that he was a cripple. Before him was a table, at which he was writing. There were on the table, besides his writing materials, a number of little dolls, some of which were arranged in groups, while others were lying about unused. He was copying his finished play: as he copied it he played the scenes with the dolls and spoke the dialogue. The dolls were his characters: there was not a single scene or change of the grouping which this conscientious young dramatist had not rehearsed over and over again, until every line of the dialogue had its own stage picture, clear and distinct in his mind. 'You are Mr. Feilding?' he asked, rising with some difficulty. 'I have heard so much of you from Effie. It is a great honour to have a call from you.' 'I take a deep interest,' the great man replied, 'in anything that concerns Miss Effie Wilmot. I have been able--I believe you know--to give her some assistance and advice in her work. Oh!'--he waved his hand to deprecate any expressions of gratitude--'I have done very little--very little indeed. Now, about yourself. I learn from your sister that you have ambitions--you would become a dramatist?' 'I have no other ambition. It is my only dream.' 'A very good dream indeed. And you have made, I am told, a start--a maiden effort--a preliminary flight to try your wings. You have written your first attempt at a play?' 'Yes. It is here. It is finished.'