“Just a minute, Mr. Westcott, will you? Yes--hullo--yes--This is 6140 Strand. Hullo! Hullo! Oh--is that you, Mrs. Wyman? Good morning--yes, splendid, thank you--never fitter--Very busy yes, of course--what--Lunch Thursday?... Oh, but delighted. Just let me look at my book a moment? Yes--quite free--Who? The Frasers and Pigots? Oh! delightful! 1.30, delightful!” Mr. Boset, settled once more in his chair, was as charming as possible. You would suppose that the whole day was at Peter's service. He wanted to know a great many things. Peter's hopes ran high. “Well--what have you got to show? What have you written?” Peter had written a novel. “Published?” “No.” “Well ... got anything else?” “No--not just at present.” “Oh well--must have something to show you know--” “Yes.” Peter's hopes were in his boots. “Yes--must have something to show--” Mr. Boset's eyes were peering into the cardboard box on a voyage of selection. “Yes--well--when you've written something send it along--” “I suppose there isn't anything I can do--” “Well, our staff, you know, is filled up to the eyes as it is--fellows waiting--lots of 'em--yes, you show us what you can do. Write an article or two. Buy _The Mascot_ and see the kind of thing we like. Yes--Excuse me, the telephone--Yes--Yes 6140 Strand....” Peter found himself once more in the outer room and then ushered forth by the Shining Boy he was in the street. He was hungry now and sought an A.B.C. shop and there over the cold marble-topped tables consulted his list. The next attempt should be _The Saturday Illustrated_, one of the leading illustrated weeklies, and perhaps there he would be more successful. As he sat in the A.B.C. shop and watched the squares of street opposite the window he felt suddenly that no effort of his would enable him to struggle successfully against those indifferent crowds. Above the houses in the patch of blue sky that filled the window-pane soft bundles of cloud streamed like flags before the wind. Into these soft grey meshes the sun was swept and with a cold shudder Fleet Street fell into shadow; beyond it and above it the great dome burned; a company of sandwich men, advertising on their stooping bodies the latest musical comedy, crept along the gutter. III At the offices of _The Saturday Illustrated_ they told him that if he returned at four o'clock he would be able to see the Editor. He walked about and at last sat down on the Embankment and watched the barges slide down the river. The water was feathery and sometimes streamed into lines like spun silk reflecting many colours, and above the water the clouds turned and wheeled and changed against the limpid blue. The little slap that the motion of the river gave to the stone embankment reminded him of the wooden jetty at Treliss--the place was strangely sweet--the roar of the Strand was far away and muffled.