"I think myself one goes back to the novel all the fresher for the break," she said; "but, of course, everybody has his own system of working. Would you care to write me a couple of three-thousand-word stories first? We can discuss the book later. If you let me have two stories to-morrow night, I could give you five guineas each for them on Saturday." "To-morrow is out of the question. You don't realise how slowly I write, and I haven't the motives." "Say the next day--say by Thursday. But it must be by then. The man goes out of town on Saturday, and I want him to read them before he goes. If _I_ can have the manuscripts on Thursday, _you_ can have ten guineas Saturday night." "It's a very good offer," said Kent. "You must get a royal rate." "Well, I couldn't always offer you so much, but, then, I don't often want them quite so long. Two, of three thousand words, and to end happily, for choice. Not too strong. If they will illustrate well, all the better, but you needn't give yourself any trouble on that score--it's the artist's affair." "I'll do them," said Humphrey. "I suppose I must make an attempt to imitate your style?" "It isn't necessary. I generally begin with a very short sentence, like 'It was noon,' or 'It rained'; you might do that; but I really don't know that it matters.... Mr. Kent----" "Yes?" he said. "This is a confidential matter; I rely on your honour not to mention it to a living soul, of course! I don't know how much married you are, but I depend on you not to tell your wife. It would ruin me if it came out." He assured her that she might trust him, and having pledged himself to the lighter task, he resolved on his way home that he would undertake the heavier, too. She did not want a year of his best work--he doubted if he could contemplate that, even if refusal meant Strawberry Hill for Cynthia and the baby, and the workhouse for himself--she asked only a few weeks of his worst. Money was indispensable; he must make it in whatever way he could. A ghost, eh? He was rising finely in the career of literature. His first novel had received what was almost the highest possible cachet; his second was "declined with thanks"; and now no mode of livelihood was left him but to be a ghost. His throat was tight with shame; there were tears in it.