"It might," Teddie affirmed with, however, less assurance than heretofore. It was, after all, false kindness to give nothing but praise. "But if it is not that, it may be the—the ’vision’ they don’t like; and you know, Hazel, I am beginning to doubt myself whether it has not got a ludicrous side. Do you think yourself that it is natural? _Would_ the mother be knocking about a battlefield, thousands of miles from home?" "Perhaps she would not," admitted poor Hazel. "But you see, Teddie, she was supposed to be a widow with no other children, and very, very fond of this only son, whom she follows to the front unbeknown to him, having no home ties to keep her in England." The girl looked wistfully for her brother’s next comment. "I think," he said decidedly, as they walked on again, "that you have too much killing in your style. I admit that you are good at it, but it may not be liked, especially in a woman writer. It is—it is hard, you might say blood-thirsty. Just look how you kill them off," he continued ruthlessly, waxing eloquent in his theme, "wholesale!" Hazel looked somewhat shocked as this appalling idea was presented to her. "Teddie," she gasped, "where—where have I killed them off so? Of course you have to have deaths in battle. It is one of the horrors of war." "It is not only the battle," Teddie insisted. "It is not only generally, so to speak, but you delight in bringing deaths into private life. Look at your hero’s family, for example: how you have to make that wretched woman widowed and childless; excepting, of course, the hero himself, but even him you bring to the point of death. It is not good art," he concluded, shaking his head. "Yes," she admitted sadly; "perhaps it is a rather unwomanly trait in my writing." "I am glad you see it," her brother returned, softening somewhat. "Why, you have only got to have a murder in it to make ’Battle, Murder, and Sudden Death’ an excellent title." "Well," Hazel declared, after a pause, "I shall give up trying to make money in that way. My only real gift is music. There is no doubt about it, that I should never make an author. If only people would hire me to sing at little concerts. You know what a success I am at the school concert at Christmas-time, and how old Jonathan Higgins would walk ten miles to hear ’My mother bids me bind my hair,’ as I sing it. I am thinking of that five pounds, old fellow," she added dismally. "Yes, by Jove!" Teddie rejoined, and relapsed into silence. "Since my rise," he began presently, "I have been in constant difficulties. It is always the way. When you have not a halfpenny, you do nothing and go nowhere." Hazel nodded. She longed to ask her brother to what extent he had broken through this wise régime, but held her peace. "I date my difficulties from the day when I gave a champagne lunch to five fellows I know." "The day of the rise?" his sister asked shrewdly, awed by this peep into dissipated life.