I had one curious experience in writing "Gladys Fane" that may or may not be common to most novelists. Certain of the characters were founded upon real men and women. I painted no portraits, of course, but I undoubtedly took hints from people whom I knew. My heroine, for example, had a prototype in real life, who served for the first sketch, but as I wrote I made her character develop until she was a wholly different woman from her model. Black, criticising the story in a letter, remarked that the further the heroine was removed from all likeness to the original, the more natural and real she became. But still more striking was the fact that most of my critics agreed that the most real characters in the book, those that struck them as being most lifelike and individual, were purely imaginary creations of my own. "I like your villain," wrote Lord Houghton. "He is the most impressive figure in the book. Wherever did you meet him?" As a matter of fact, I had met him nowhere, and could not charge myself with having taken even a hint in drawing his portrait from anybody whom I knew or had heard of. Some of the minor characters were unhesitatingly described by critics as portraits evidently drawn from life. In no single instance had they been so drawn. I had imagined them simply. It would be interesting to know if this is the experience of other writers of romance. I am bound to speak with modesty and diffidence, because of my very limited experience in this kind of work. I have only touched upon the subject, indeed, because I think it may interest my readers to know something of the secrets of the workshop of even the humblest literary artist. There is just one other point that I may mention in connection with "Gladys Fane." Whilst I was writing the book, I was doing my full work as editor of the _Leeds Mercury_, and was not only editing the paper, but was writing for it an average of twelve columns a week. "Gladys Fane" is a long story, containing a hundred and sixty thousand words. I wrote it during my scanty leisure in exactly sixteen weeks, or at the rate of ten thousand words a week. This, I imagine, is a speed which only the unfaltering pen of the typical lady novelist usually attains. Before beginning any chapter which had not shaped itself clearly in my mind, I used to take a long country walk, during the course of which I found that I could beat out the whole narrative, and solve any small problem in the construction that had troubled me.