"I was thinkin' as much," said the unflattering Palmerston. "Come to that, you was the first as ever offered marriage to me." "But I didn't! I mean," urged Fancy, "it was only in joke." "Joke or not," said Palmerston, "you can't deny it." Suddenly weakening, he let slip his advantage. "But I wouldn' wish to marry one that despised me," he declared. "I had enough o' bein' despised--in the Workhouse." "I never said I despised you, Pammy," Fancy protested. "Yes, you did; or in so many words--'Unmanly,' you said." "But that was about writing." She opened her eyes wide. "You don't mean to tell me _that's_ the trouble? . . . What have you been writing?" "A book," owned Palmerston with gloom. "A man must try to raise himself somehow." "Of course he must. What sort of book?" "It's--it's only a story." "Why," she reassured him, "I heard of a man the other day who wrote a story and made A Thousand Pounds. It was quite unexpected, and surprised even his friends." "It must be the same man Mrs Bowldler told me about. His name was Walter Scott, and he called it 'Waverley' without signing his name to it, because he was a Sheriff; and there was another man that wrote a book called 'Picnic' by Boss, and made pounds. So I've called mine 'Pickerley,' by way of drawing attention,--but, of course, if you think there's no chance, I suppose there isn't," wound up Palmerston, with a sudden access of despondency. "Oh, Palmerston," exclaimed Fancy, clasping her hands, "if it should only turn out that you're a genius!" "It _would_ be a bit of all right," he agreed, his cheerfulness reviving. "I have heard somewhere," she mused, "or perhaps I read it on the newspaper, that men of genius make the very worst husbands, and a woman must be out of her senses to marry one." Again Palmerston's face fell. "I mayn't be one after all," he protested, but not very hopefully. "Oh yes, I am sure you are! And, what's more, if you make a hit, as they say, I don't know but I might overlook it and take the risk. You see, I'm accustomed to living with Mr Rogers, who is bound to go to hell and that might turn out to be a sort of practice." The boy stood silent, rubbing his head. He wanted time to think this out. Such an altered face do our ambitions present to most of us as they draw closer, nearer to our grasp! Suddenly Fancy clapped her hands. "Why, of course!" she cried. "I always had an idea, somewhere inside o' me, that I'd be a lady one of these days--very important and covered all over with di'monds, so that all the other women would envy me. You know that feelin'?" "No-o," confessed Palmerston.