"He tells me it is the first holiday he has taken for years," she said. "His profession seems to engross him. I suppose it is an engrossing one. But he oughtn't to exhaust his strength. I needn't ask you if you've read his novel. What do you think of it?" "I think it extremely clever work," said Turquand. "And it's been a great success, too, eh? 'One of the books of the year,' _The Times_ called it." "It has certainly given him a literary position." "How splendid!" she said. "Yes, that's what _I_ thought it: 'extremely clever,' brilliant--most brilliant! His parents must be very proud of him?" "They're dead," said Turquand. Mrs. Walford was surprised again. She had "somehow taken it for granted that they were living," and as she understood that he had no brothers or sisters, it must be very lonely for him? "He sees a good deal of _me_" said her escort, "and I'm quite a festive sort of person when you know me." Her giggle announced that she found this entertaining, but the approval did not loosen his tongue. She fanned herself strenuously, and decided that, besides being untidy, he was dense. "Of course, in one way," she pursued, "his condition is an advantage to him. Literary people have to work so hard if they depend on their writing, don't they?" "I do," he assented, "I'm sorry to say." His constant obtrusion of himself into the matter annoyed her very much. She had neither inquired nor cared if he worked hard, and she felt disposed to say so. Turquand, who realised now why honours had been thrust upon him this evening, regretted that loyalty to Kent prevented his doing him what he felt would be the greatest service that could be rendered and removing the temptation of the mauve girl permanently from his path. "With talent and private means our author is fortunate?" "I often tell him so," he said. "If it doesn't tempt him to rest on his oars," she added delightedly. "Wealth _has_ its dangers. Young men _will_ be young men!" "'Wealth' is a big word," said he. "Kent certainly can't be called 'wealthy.'" "But he doesn't depend on his pen?" she cried with painful carelessness. "He has some private means, I believe; in fact, I know it." "I am so glad--so glad for him. Now I have no misgivings about his future at all.... Have _you_?" "I'm not sure that I follow you." She played with her fan airily. "He is certain to succeed, I mean; he needn't fear anything, as he has a competence. Oh, I know what these professions are," she went on, laughing. "My son is in the artistic world, we are quite behind the scenes. I know how hard-up some of the biggest professionals are when they have nothing but their profession to depend on. A profession is so precarious--shocking--even when one has aptitude for it."