The same evening, as they sat on one of the seats upon the lawn, Miss Ferrol became aware several times that Louisiana was regarding her with more than ordinary interest. She sat with her hands folded upon her lap, her eyes fixed on her face, and her pretty mouth actually a little open. "What are you thinking of?" Olivia asked, at length. The girl started, and recovered herself with an effort. "I--well, I was thinking about--authors," she stammered. "Any particular author?" inquired Olivia, "or authors as a class?" "About your brother being one. I never thought I should see any one who knew an author--and you are related to one!" Her companion's smile was significant of immense experience. It was plain that she was so accustomed to living on terms of intimacy with any number of authors that she could afford to feel indifferent about them. "My dear," she said, amiably, "they are not in the least different from other people." It sounded something like blasphemy. "Not different!" cried Louisiana. "Oh, surely, they must be! Isn't--isn't your brother different?" Miss Ferrol stopped to think. She was very fond of her brother. Privately she considered him the literary man of his day. She was simply disgusted when she heard experienced critics only calling him "clever" and "brilliant" instead of "great" and "world-moving." "Yes," she replied at length, "he is different." "I thought he must be," said Louisiana, with a sigh of relief. "You are, you know." "Am I?" returned Olivia. "Thank you. But I am not an author--at least,"--she added, guiltily, "nothing I have written has ever been published." "Oh, why not?" exclaimed Louisiana. "Why not?" she repeated, dubiously and thoughtfully. And then, knitting her brows, she said, "I don't know why not." "I am sure if you have ever written anything, it ought to have been published," protested her adorer. "_I_ thought so," said Miss Ferrol. "But--but _they_ didn't." "They?" echoed Louisiana. "Who are 'they?'" "The editors," she replied, in a rather gloomy manner. "There is a great deal of wire-pulling, and favoritism, and--even envy and malice, of which those outside know nothing. You wouldn't understand it if I should tell you about it." For a few moments she wore quite a fell expression, and gloom reigned. She gave her head a little shake. "They regret it afterward," she remarked,--"frequently." From which Louisiana gathered that it was the editors who were so overwhelmed, and she could not help sympathizing with them in secret. There was something in the picture of their unavailing remorse which touched her, despite her knowledge of the patent fact that they deserved it and could expect nothing better. She was quite glad when Olivia brightened up, as she did presently. "Laurence is handsomer than most of them, and has a more distinguished air," she said. "He is very charming. People always say so." "I wish I could see him," ventured Louisiana.