"And Mr. Langham cannot know that mine is not rubbish," Hazel rejoined, wishing to be reasonable. "It is called ’The Victoria Cross, and How it was Won,’" she continued, turning to the editor. "The hero goes to the front, and there is a tremendous battle, which I think I have succeeded in making very realistic." "Stunning," put in Teddie. "And then," she resumed, waxing eloquent in her theme, "afterwards, upon the battlefield, when he is lying wounded in the moonlight, a fearful vision rises before his eyes." "Blood-curdling," remarked Teddie, _sotto voce_. "But it is only his delirium that distorts things and makes them fearful. In reality it is his mother." Mr. Langham did his utmost to appear properly interested, and endeavoured to keep his countenance, wherein he was only partially successful. It was a delightful pair, he thought: this handsome young fellow and lovely, dainty girl. And, busy as he was, he made no move to hurry Hazel. The girl’s spontaneity was refreshing, her ardour and evident good faith in her attempt at authorship were touching to a man of his sympathetic and benevolent nature. He was quite anxious not to precipitate their departure by word or sign. "I know I must not keep you," Hazel concluded, rising from her seat; "but you will be glad to hear that it all ends peacefully and happily, and his great bravery is fully recognised." "That is very satisfactory," Mr. Langham returned, rising also. "Stories should always end happily, I think." "I think so, too," Hazel returned. "Good-bye," she added, giving him her hand. "I hope we have not kept you too long." Mr. Langham released the hand with something of reluctance, and preceded his visitors to the door. He shook hands with Teddie, and was somewhat astonished at the warmth of the young man’s grasp. "Yes," Teddie agreed, "I hope we have not kept you too long." And the pair passed out. "Do you know"—and Hazel’s head reappeared as Mr. Langham was about to close the door—"do you know, before I saw you," she said laughing, "I had quite made up my mind not to speak at all—except, of course, to answer any questions you might put to me. I thought it would be the business-like, correct way; and, besides, I had a sort of notion that editors were rather terrible—as a class," she added hastily, fearful of wounding the sensibility of the editor in question. "Even now I cannot help thinking you are an exception. Good-bye." And she was gone. Charles Langham, this exception to his kind, stood listening to the sound of their dying footsteps, then turned to his interrupted work with a smile and a sigh. "And now," said Teddie, looking at his watch, "I must take you back to the station and get on to the office."