“What—that one should never forget having once met Emily Morland?” French rejoined, with a smile he could not repress. “No,” said Emily Morland’s lover with simplicity. “But the coincidence. You see, I’d made up my mind to ask you—.” He broke off, and looked down at the sketch, as if seeking guidance where doubtless he had so often found it. “The fact is,” he began again, “I’m going to write her Life. She left me all her papers—I daresay you know about all that. It’s a trust—a sacred trust; but it’s also a most tremendous undertaking! And yesterday, after hearing something of what you’re planning about Fingall, I realized how little I’d really thought the book out, how unprepared I was—what a lot more there was in that sort of thing than I’d at first imagined. I used to write—a little; just short reviews, and that kind of thing. But my hand’s out nowadays; and besides, this is so different. And then, my time’s not quite my own any longer.... So I made up my mind that I’d consult you, ask you if you’d help me ... oh, as much as ever you’re willing....” His smile was irresistible. “I asked Bessy. And she thought you’d understand.” “Understand?” gasped French. “Understand?” “You see,” Paul hurried on, “there are heaps and heaps of letters—her beautiful letters! I don’t mean—” his voice trembled slightly—“only the ones to me; though some of those ... well, I’ll leave it to you to judge.... But lots of others too, that all sorts of people have sent me. Apparently everybody kept her letters. And I’m simply swamped in them,” he ended helplessly, “unless you will.” French’s voice was as unsteady as his. “Unless I will? There’s nothing on earth I’d have asked ... if I could have imagined it....” “Oh, really?” Paul’s voice dropped back with relief to its everyday tone. He was clearly unprepared for exaltation. “It’s amazingly kind of you—so kind that I don’t in the least know how to thank you.” He paused, his hand still between the pages of the sketch-book. Suddenly he opened it and glanced down again at the drawing, and then at French. “Meanwhile—if you really like this thing; you _do_?” He smiled a little incredulously and bent his handsome head to give the leaf a closer look. “Yes, there are his initials; well, that makes it all the more....” He tore out the page and handed it to French. “Do take it,” he said. “I wish I had something better of her to give you—but there’s literally nothing else; nothing except the beautiful enlarged photograph she had done for me the year we met; and that, of course—” V Mrs. Paul, as French had foreseen she would be, was late at their second appointment; later even than at the first. But what did French care? He could have waited contentedly for a week in that blatant drawing-room, with such hopes in his bosom and such a treasure already locked up in his portmanteau. And when at last she came she was just as cordial, as voluble and as unhelpful as ever.