"Jarvis was the 'other things' I asked you here to talk about." "I see." "He's in New York." "He is? Why didn't he look me up?" "He doesn't like you." "He took us seriously the other day?" "He did." "Jealous, is he? That isn't why he is in New York?" "Oh, no! He went to sell a play." "Belasco refused it?" "Yes, and two others. The Parkes have it now. They are going to take it." "That's good." "Jarvis may have to stay in the city for some time. He doesn't know any one. He hates cities. I suspect he is economizing too much to be comfortable. I thought maybe you would look him up--keep an eye on him." "I should be delighted to, if you think he doesn't dislike me too much." "Oh, no, he was annoyed that day we flirted so outrageously, but I know he would be glad to see you." "I had a wonderful time that day, myself." "It was fun. Everybody was so at cross purposes." "Do I continue the rôle of old beau?" "Oh, no. You've established yourself with father, so there's no use in playing up." "Old beau exit with regret," he sighed. "You're a nice man, and I'm glad of you." "Thanks. Give me Jocelyn's address before you forget it. Ah, there's the Professor now," he added, as he pocketed the card and hastened into the garden. The rest of the two days they spent in easy companionship. They played tennis, they drove through the woods in an old surrey, Bambi as whip. Then, when the Professor's early bedtime removed him to the second story, they sat on the moonlit piazza and talked. The novel had grown into ten chapters. Three instalments had been published, and the public was showing a most flattering interest in it. Strong brought a box of letters for her to read from enthusiastic readers. "It's extraordinary how real you make your characters when you are such a novice," he said to her. "I tell you I am a photographer. The musician in my story is Jarvis, with a thin disguise. The old fiddler is my father, and the girl is shamelessly 'me.'" "Delightfully you," he corrected her. "Has the Professor or your husband read any of your stories?" "No. They never read magazines. Jarvis saw the announcement of the prize story, and commented on the use of my name, but I threw him off the scent easily." "I don't see why you don't 'fess' up, now that the thing is an established success." "No, not yet. It's such a lovely secret. I want to wait for just the moment to spring it on them." "Couldn't you invite me in when that moment comes?" "We'll see. I may invite the neighbours in, and crown myself with a laurel wreath." "I'd rely on your doing it in a novel way." "The surest way of being considered eccentric is just to be yourself. So few of us have the nerve." They talked late. He told her his plans and hopes for the magazine. He spoke of his people, of his past life, of his preparation for his work, and when the clock finally interrupted with twelve strokes, they arose, nearer friends than ever.