He felt these things very grievous to bear: the only hope that buoyed him up was, that when the editor of the _Olympic_ returned to town, all would be put right. He would go straight to him and say: ‘I am Ariel! and here is a much superior sketch to the one I first sent you. Insert it, and I will not haggle with you about the amount of the honorarium, for I know you are a generous paymaster.’ Then all would again be well; he would resume his proper place in society, and his writings would be as eagerly sought after as ever. It was towards the end of March when Mr Hannay returned from his prolonged continental tour. Allowing him a day or two to get settled down, one blowy, blustering forenoon, Alfred sallied forth to call on him. He sent in his card, and in a few minutes was in the editor’s sanctum. ‘Pray, be seated, sir,’ said Mr Hannay politely. ‘I—I do not remember your name, Mr Roberton.’ ‘Ah, I daresay not,’ he replied, smiling. ‘You’ll know me better by my _nom de plume_. I am Ariel!’ Alfred was gratified to see the slight start which followed this important announcement, and he likewise became conscious that he was being inventoried by a pair of keen black eyes. He put a favourable interpretation on these indications of interest. ‘And what then, Mr Ariel, can I have the pleasure of doing for you?’ said Mr Hannay after a brief pause. ‘Well, sir, I have an excellent little paper here,’ Alfred replied, producing a manuscript from his coat-pocket. ‘It is entitled “A Week’s Yachting on the Rhine.” It is very carefully written; and I can vouch for its accuracy in details, as it is extended from notes I made when yachting there with a friend.’ ‘Oh, very well, sir,’ said the editor, laying the paper aside. ‘I’ll take a look at it. But I can hold out hardly the least hope of being able to accept it. We are literally deluged with that sort of matter, and can’t find room for one in fifty of the manuscripts that are sent us.—At anyrate,’ he added, laughing, ‘it would require to be a little better than your “Ramble in Kirkcudbright.”’ What could all this mean? thought the bewildered Alfred. Was the editor making a fool of him? At the very suggestion, he flushed red, and it was with an effort he was able to stammer forth: ‘And pray, sir, if the article was so worthless, why did you accept it? And why did you send me so handsome an honorarium?’ The editor looked both surprised and puzzled. Instead of replying to the question, he asked one: ‘Are you the gentleman who is engaged to be married to Miss Anne Porteous?’ ‘No!—Yes! That is to say, I was engaged, but am not so now.’ ‘Indeed! And how is that?’ said the editor, with an air of interest.