For an instant he felt as though the studio, the lights, the comforts were holding him like a prison-- “It's a letter from Stephen Brant,” he said, turning back from the window. “He seems well and happy--” “Where is he?” “Eating bread and cheese at an inn somewhere--on the road down to Cornwall.” IV On the following Tuesday “Reuben Hallard” was published and on the Thursday afternoon Henry Galleon and Clare Rossiter were to come to tea. “Reuben Hallard” arrived in a dark red cover with a white paper label. The six copies lay on the table and looked at Peter as though he had had nothing whatever to do with their existence. He looked down upon them, opened one of them very tenderly, read half a page and felt that it was the best stuff he'd ever seen. He read the rest of the page and thought that the author, whoever the creature might be, deserved, imprisonment for writing such nonsense. The feeling of strangeness towards it all was increased by the fact that Bobby had, with the exception of the final proofs--these Peter had read down by the sea--done most of the proof-correcting. It was a task for which his practical common sense and lack of all imagination admirably fitted him. There, at any rate, “Reuben Hallard” was, ready to face all the world, to go, perhaps, to the farthest Hebrides, to be lost in all probability, utterly lost, in the turgid flood of contemporary fiction. There was a dedication “To Stephen”... How surprised Stephen would be! He looked at the chapter headings--An Old Man with a Lantern--the Road at Night.... Sun on the Western Moor--Stevenson--Tushery all of it! How they'd tear it to bits, those papers! He laughed to himself to think that there had once been a day when he had thought that the thing would make his fortune! And yet--he turned the pages over tenderly--there might be something to be said for it, Miss Monogue had thought well of it. These publishers, blasé, cynical fellows, surely believed in it. It was fat and red and comfortable. It had a worldly, prosperous look. “Reuben Hallard and His Adventures” ... Good Lord! What cheek. There were five copies to give away. One between Bobby and Mrs. Galleon, one for Stephen, one for Miss Monogue, one for Mrs. Brockett and one for Mr. Zanti. “Reuben Hallard and His Adventures,” by Peter Westcott. They would be getting it now at the newspaper offices. _The Mascot_ would have a copy and the fat little chocolate consumer. It would stand with a heap of others, and be ticked off with a heap of others, for some youth to exercise his wit upon. As to any one buying the book? Who ever saw any one buying a six-shilling novel? It was only within the last year or so that the old three volumes with their thirty-one-and-six had departed this life. The publishers had assured Peter that this new six-shilling form was the thing. “Please have you got 'Reuben Hallard' by Peter Westcott?... Thank you, I'll take it with me.” No, it was inconceivable.