Very well, then, the three o’clock pupil should be off; Rosalind declared she would be thinking of the afternoon every hour of the day until it arrived. “So shall I,” said Erb shortly. Had Erb seen Lady Frances lately? “We can’t bear to be apart,” said Erb, in a tone meant to be jocular. There were times when the one thing certain seemed to be that by no possible chance could the first number of “The Carman” come out on the day appointed. The printers did not place the importance of the undertaking so high as Erb did; difficult to make them understand the importance of producing it on the day fixed; the foreman of the noisy, rattling printing establishment in Southwark said frankly that the world having done without the journal for so long, no great hurt could be occasioned if it should be a day or two late. But on the day, their van drove up to the doorway of the office where Erb and some of the committee were waiting, and a minute later each man had a copy in his hands, his eyes fixed on the gratifying place where his own name appeared. Erb had taken ingenious care to mention as many names as possible, and, because of this, railway vans sent, say, from Paddington to Haverstock Hill, made a slight detour and called at Bermondsey for copies. There were some misprints, and one man, whose Christian name was given as John instead of James, cancelled his subscription instantly, and prophesied a gloomy future for the paper. Erb demanded opinions, and discovered to his regret, that nearly every line in the small paper received condemnation from somebody (personal paragraphs about high officials in the railway world alone excepted), the fact being that the readers of “The Carman” misapprehended the question, and assumed, when asked for an opinion, that they were invited to give adverse judgment; a thing that has happened with other critics in other circumstances. But the particular copies presented to Louisa and to Rosalind extorted from these young women, on their way slowly to Cherry Garden Pier, unqualified approval. On the pier, where they waited for the steamer coming up from Greenwich, the two ladies read again the printed references to themselves. “Yours,” said Erb importantly, fanning himself with his straw hat, “yours is what we newspaper people call a dummy ad.” “I can pay for mine,” said Rosalind quickly. “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” retorted Erb. “Read it out!” She read it with a flush of gratification on her young face, Erb looking over her shoulder. The scent of brown Windsor came to him. “‘Miss Rosalind Danks,’” she read, “‘Professor of Elocution, Declamation, Gesture, et cetera, et cetera. Number so-and-so Southampton Street, Camberwell, S.E. Schools attended. Private lessons given. Assisted by Mr. Reginald C. Danks, formerly of the principal West End theatres. “We shall never forget his Montgiron.”—Vide Press.’” “Now yours, Louisa.” A break in his short sister’s voice betokened uncontrollable pride.