Hemming soon settled down to his work. He was more systematic about it than O'Rourke, working several hours every morning at articles for the magazines, and part of every evening at a novel. O'Rourke, who had many friends and acquaintances in and about Newspaper Row, spent but little of his time at home, and did his work when he had to. Both O'Rourke and Hemming were frequent visitors at another house on the square, where the Hickses and Tetsons lived in comfort. Hemming's novel was built up, chapter by chapter, and relentlessly torn down, only to be rebuilt with much toil. The general outline of the story had come to him years before, one night while he was playing poker in the chart-room of an ocean tramp. He had written a few pages next morning, behind the canvas dodgers of the bridge. Then it had been pushed aside by the press of other work; but he had returned to it now and then, in many parts of the world. The chapters done in Pernamba were the only ones that did not seem to require rewriting. By this time the original plot was almost forgotten, and a more satisfactory one had developed. One Thursday night, having finished the twentieth chapter as well as he knew how, he changed his clothes and went over to call on Mrs. Hicks. It was her evening. He went alone, for O'Rourke had dined out, and had not returned. About a dozen people were already there. While he was talking to McFarland of the Gazette, he noticed a girl talking to their hostess. Just why she attracted him he could not say for a moment. Mrs. Hicks was more beautiful, and there were at least two women in the room as tastefully gowned. She looked girlish beside her stately hostess. But there was a jaunty, gallant air about the carriage of her head and shoulders, which seemed to Hemming particularly charming. Her voice was deep, and her laughter was unaffected as that of a boy. "You too?" laughed McFarland. "I never saw her before," said Hemming. "Then let me tell you now," said the editor, "that it is no use. Even your eye-glass could not awaken her from her romantic dream." "Count me out," replied Hemming, dryly, "but tell me something about it." "All I know," said McFarland, "is that there are ten of us--eleven counting the lucky unknown. We ten used to hate one another, but now we are as brothers in our common misery. But tell me, is it true that you are working on a novel? I don't see what you want to go messing with fiction for, when you can do stuff like that Turkish book."