“‘We are glad to say that Miss L. Barnes, younger sister of our secretary, is slowly recovering from a rather serious illness.’ First time,” said Louisa, waving the journal in the air, “the very first time my name’s ever been in print.” “May I suggest, Mr. Editor,” said Rosalind, leading him to the iron chain that protected the edge of the pier, “that it is a little clumsy to express satisfaction at slow recovery? It wasn’t what you meant.” “Don’t let on to her about it,” urged Erb distressed. “I haven’t got quite the hang of writing. Is there anything else you noticed?” “Nothing of importance.” “Tell us,” begged the anxious editor, “and get it over.” “These personal paragraphs, headed ‘What we Want to Know.’” “The men all liked them.” “A little spiteful,” she said quietly. “Calculated to hurt somebody. I shouldn’t, if I were you. This one, for instance.” “We’ll drop ’em in number two. Here’s our boat coming.” Some particular people complain of the river steamers, but the “Flying Arrow” that took charge of the three at London Bridge, and conveyed them up under railway bridges, and past embankments, and by the terrace of the House of Commons—Erb waved his straw hat to his friend the white-haired labour member, and the labour member waved in return in such a friendly manner that other passengers became at once interested in Erb, and whispered (to Louisa’s great satisfaction), “Who is he? Who is he, eh?”—by the Tate Gallery, and between unattractive stores, Nine Elms way, the “Flying Arrow,” I say, for these three young people might have been a gaily caparisoned barge lent by Cleopatra; the gramophone that squeaked out songs in a ghostly, unnatural tone of voice, a selected troupe from the Royal Italian Opera; and the changes that the atmosphere took from inexpensive cigars and cheap tobaccos, the choicest perfumes from Old Bond Street. The top note of satisfaction was reached when Erb, invited to political debate by the self-confident captain, worsted that uniformed official with the greatest possible ease, and sent him back limp to the bridge, to resume a profession for which he was qualified. Disappointing, perhaps, to find that people on the steamboat who studied literature were not applying themselves to “The Carman,” devoting their minds, instead, to cheap journals, which offered German pictures (second-hand), with American jokes underneath, not absolutely new. Erb left two copies of “The Carman,” one aft and one at the other end, and the girls watched results; a lad with a bulgy forehead took up a copy and read it with languid interest; he presently dropped it on the deck, and a waiter in a bowler hat who came along at that moment threw it into the river, where it drifted away helplessly. The other copy seemed likely to taste more of success, for a woman seized it with every sign of delight; when she proceeded to wrap up a pair of boots in the new journal Erb felt annoyed.