"Virtuously, monsieur," she said, smiling. "You travel fast!" "And--please go on! Are there cakes and ale, or does she tend the sick and visit the poor?" "You appal me!" said Mrs. Deane-Pitt. "Whatever my faults, I am modern; I end with a question-point." "Not questioning the lady's----" "Oh, her happiness, of course!" "'This brilliant and absorbing study, which is already giving rise to considerable discussion,' would be the kind of thing?" "Quite," she said. "I'm awfully sorry to give you so much trouble." "The 'trouble' 's a pleasure. You don't want your 'favourite dog' mentioned, do you? Favourite dogs are rather at a discount. Er----" "Three," she said. "Yes; a boy and two girls." "Does the boy--'in a picturesque suit'--come into the room, and lead up to 'evident maternal pride'?" "He's a dear little fellow!" she answered. "But do you think 'evident maternal pride' would be quite in the key? No; I'd stick to me and the work! Besides, domesticity is tedious to read about; the dullest topic in the world is other people's children." Kent laughed. "I'll explain to Mr. Beaufort," he declared; "you shall have a revise sent on to-morrow. I'm sure you'll find it all right when he understands the style of thing you want." "Thank you," she said dryly. "I assure you I have no misgivings, Mr. Kent. 'Kent'! I've never had any correspondence with you, have I? The name's familiar to me, somehow." "An alias is 'The garden of England,'" he said. "No; you haven't written anything, have you?" "Two novels. One is published, and the post is wearing out the other." "I remember," she cried, uttering the title triumphantly; "I read it. What grand reviews you had! Of course, I know now. I liked your book extremely, Mr. Kent. 'Humphrey Kent,' isn't it?" "Thank you," he said. "Yes, 'Humphrey Kent.'" "And you go in for journalism, too, eh?" "Oh, this is a departure. I was never on a paper till lately." "Really!" she exclaimed. "You aren't giving fiction up?" "I'm pot-boiling, Mrs. Deane-Pitt. Do you think it very inartistic of me?" "Don't!" she said. "Inartistic! I hate that cant. There are papers that are always calling _me_ inartistic. One's got to live. Oh, I admire the people who can put up with West Kensington and take three years to write a novel, but their altitude is beyond me. I write to sell, _moi_ --though you needn't put that in the interview. But I shouldn't have thought you'd have any trouble in placing your books--you oughtn't to to-day! I expect you've been too 'literary'--you'll grow out of it." "You don't believe in----"