Somewhat damped, Severne took his manuscript home with him. There he re-read it. All his old enthusiasm returned. It was exactly true. Realism could have had no more accurate exposition of its principles. He cursed Brown, and inclosed stamps to the _Decade_. After a time he received a check and a flattering letter. Realism stood vindicated! In due course the story appeared. During the interim Severne had found that his glooming was becoming altogether too realistic for his peace of mind. As time went on and he saw nothing of Lucy Melville, he began to realise that perhaps, after all, he was making a mistake somewhere. At certain recklessly immoral moments he even thought a very little of proving false to art. To such depths can the human soul descend! The evening after the appearance of his story in the _Decade_, he was sitting in front of his open fire in very much that mood. The lamps had not been lighted. To him came Mortimer, his man. "A leddy to see you, sir; no name," he announced, solemnly. Severne arose in some surprise. "Light the lamp, and show her up," he commanded, wondering who she could be. At the sound of his voice, the visitor pushed into the room past Mortimer. "Never mind the lamp," cried Lucy Melville. The faithful Mortimer left the room, and--officially--heard no more. "Why, Lucy!" cried Severne. In the dim light he could see that her cheeks were glowing with excitement. She crossed the room swiftly, and put her hands on his shoulders. "Bob," she said, gravely, with tears in her eyes, "I know I ought not to be here, but I just couldn't help it! After you were so noble! And it won't matter, for I'm going in just a minute." Severne cast his mind back in review of his noble acts. "What is it, Lucy?" he inquired. "As if you could ask!" she cried. "I never knew of a man's doing so tactful and graceful and _beautiful_ a thing in my life! And I don't care a bit, and I believe you were right, after all." "Right about what?" he begged, getting more and more bewildered. "About the realism, of course." She looked up at him again, pointing out her chin in the most adorable fashion. Even serious-minded men have moments of lucidity. Severne had one now. "Oh, no, you mustn't, Bob--dear!" she cried, blushing. "But really, Bob," she went on, after a moment, "even if realism is all right, you must admit that your last story is the best thing you ever wrote." "Why, yes, I do think so," he agreed, wondering what that had to do with it.