"I don't much fancy the idea," he said at last slowly, "thanks. And it wouldn't assist me. I want money now, not a year hence." "A year hence!" she murmured. "A year hence would be no use to _me_. But you could do it in a month! Pray don't mistake me. I'm not anxious to get any kudos at your expense, I don't want you to do the kind of thing that I suppose you have done in this novel of yours that's making the round now; I don't want introspection and construction, and all that. All I want is to buy shoes for my poor little children, and what I suggested was that you should knock off a story at your top speed. I don't care a pin what it's like; only turn me out a hundred thousand words!" "A hundred thousand words," cried Kent, "in a month? You might as well suggest my carrying off one of the lions out of Trafalgar Square! _The Eye of the Beholder_ isn't a hundred thousand words, and I worked at it day and night, and then it took me a year! Besides, that's another thing; it is going the round--the story mightn't be any use to you if I did it." "I can place it," said Mrs. Deane-Pitt, with emphasis. "Don't concern yourself about its fate, my friend; your responsibility will be limited to writing it. Your book took a year? I've no doubt you considered, and corrected, and spent an afternoon polishing a paragraph. Supposing you take six or seven weeks, then? Do you mean to say you couldn't write two thousand words a day?" "No, I don't believe I could--not if you offered me the Mint!" said Kent. "But you can put down the first words that come into your head! _Anything_ will do. Naturally, it would be no use to me if you wrote 'Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard' over all the pages, but any trivial thing in the shape of a story, I assure you, I can arrange for at once. Indeed, it _is_ practically arranged for; all that remains is for you to give it to me." She puffed her cigarette silently, and the young man mused. The plan was repugnant to him, but if, as she said, anything would do--well, perhaps he _could_ manage it in the time; he did not know. Two hundred pounds would certainly be salvation, and, for seven weeks' work, a magnificent reward. "I'll tell you," she continued, after a few moments: "if you liked to do me a short story or two now and again, we should have money from those in the meanwhile. I don't want to persuade you against your convictions, if you have any, but our business together would pay you better than an appointment, even if you found one; and--though that's nothing to do with it--it would be a tremendous benefit to me as well. See, with our two pens we can produce double the work, and we share the advantage of the popularity I've gained." "Oh, I quite appreciate the pecuniary pull," he answered. "I could hardly write short stories while I was fagging at a novel, though."