Helen was pleased, though surprised, at seeing him so early. She received him in the morning-room, which was delightfully informal. He asked her to ride with him at four o'clock, and spoke as if this was his reason for calling. But she thought not. Presently she caught sight of the neat lettering on the otherwise spotless cuff, and without so much as "by your leave" took hold of his wrist, pushed back his coat-sleeve, and read the quatrain. "My dear boy," she said, "it is fine. And I was just beginning to fear that this old town had made you stupid, or--or that my companionship makes you dull. I wondered if, after all, I was not inspiring." "You not inspiring!" exclaimed O'Rourke. "Why, I have had to smother more inspirations during the last few weeks than I ever had before in all my life. There's more inspiration in one of your eyelashes than in all the hair on all the heads of all the other people in the world." "Silly," she said. O'Rourke did not retort in words. "But why did you smother the inspirations, you boy?" she asked, presently. "I can't tell you now," he replied. "But at four o'clock I'll confess all. You want the red mare, I suppose. I'm off now to see your pater. Wish me luck, little girl." Helen smiled. "I hope you don't let all your cats out of their bags as easily as that," she said. "But it will save you the trouble of making confession later. Yes, the red mare, please. And, dear boy, I'll have a little talk with father at lunch, and he will never make you smother your dear inspirations again. There, that will do. Now run away and beard the lion. Really, you behave as if you were afraid of never finding me again." "Oh, I've made sure of you this time," he said. Then he remembered the seven verses, and, pulling them from his pocket, read them aloud. The fire in the morning-room was wonderfully cheerful. The clock clicked softly, and chimed once or twice, unheeded. They talked a great deal, and made plans for the future, and O'Rourke smoked a cigarette. When Mr. Hudson came home to his lunch, he found them still engaged in conversation beside the morning-room fire. They looked guiltily at the clock. O'Rourke bowed to Mr. Hudson, and extended his hand. "I have decided, sir, to stick to scribbling," said he. [Illustration: "'I HAVE DECIDED, SIR, TO STICK TO SCRIBBLING'"] "Did you ever think of not sticking to it?" she asked. O'Rourke gazed straight ahead, and had the grace to blush. A truthful woman can always--well, act--with more ease than a truthful man. "I am not fit for anything else," he said. "Dear me, dear me," said Hudson, glancing nervously at his daughter. "I haven't a doubt that you are right, Bertram. A man should be the best judge himself of what he is good for." "And now," said the lady, "you may stay to lunch. But you must hurry away right afterward for the horses."