At half-past two the lady was announced,--Miss de Montmorenci; and our editor, with palpitating heart, rose to welcome the very figure, the very same pretty walking-dress, the same little blue parasol, which he had seen upon the steps of the house in King-Charles Street. He could swear to the figure, and to the very step, although he could not as yet see the veiled face. And this was a joy to him; for, though he had not allowed himself to doubt much, he had doubted a little whether that graceful houri might or might not be his Josephine. Now she was there, present to him in his own castle, at his mercy as it were, so that he might dry her tears and bid her hope, or tell her that there was no hope so that she might still weep on, just as he pleased. It was not one of those cases in which want of bread and utter poverty are to be discussed. A horsekeeper’s bill and a visit to Dieppe were the melodramatic incidents of the tragedy, if tragedy it must be. Mr. Brown had in his time dealt with cases in which a starving mother or a dying father was the motive to which appeal was made. At worst there could be no more than a rose-water catastrophe; and it might be that triumph, and gratitude, and smiles would come. He rose from his chair, and, giving his hand gracefully to his visitor, led her to a seat. “I am very glad to see you here, Miss de Montmorenci,” he said. Then the veil was raised, and there was the pretty face half blushing half smiling, wearing over all a mingled look of fun and fear. “We are so much obliged to you, Mr. Brown, for all the trouble you have taken,” she said. “Don’t mention it. It comes in the way of my business to take such trouble. The annoyance is in this, that I can so seldom do what is wanted.” “It is so good of you to do anything!” “An editor is, of course, bound to think first of the periodical which he produces.” This announcement Mr. Brown made, no doubt, with some little air of assumed personal dignity. The fact was one which no heaven-born editor ever forgets. “Of course, Sir. And no doubt there are hundreds who want to get their things taken.” “A good many there are, certainly.” “And everything can’t be published,” said the sagacious beauty. “No, indeed; very much comes into our hands which cannot be published,” replied the experienced editor. “But this novel of yours, perhaps, may be published.” “You think so?” “Indeed I do. I cannot say what X., Y., and Z. may say to it. I’m afraid they will not do more than offer half profits.” “And that doesn’t mean any money paid at once?” asked the lady plaintively. “I’m afraid not.” “Ah! if that could be managed!” “I haven’t seen the publishers, and of course I can say nothing myself. You see I’m so busy myself with my uncles, and aunts, and grandmothers, and lady-loves----” “Ah,--that was very naughty, Mr. Brown.” “And then, you know, I have so many yards of stupid stuff to arrange.” “Oh, Mr. Brown, you should forget all that!”