The main point I aimed at was not to damp his spirits. He would, I knew well, see that the play was suitable for staging. He would, in short, see that I, an inexperienced girl, had done what he, a trained professional writer, had failed to do. Lest, therefore, his pique should kill admiration and pleasure when he received my work, I wrote as one begging a favour. “Here,” I said, “we have the means to achieve all we want. Do not—oh, do not—criticise. I have written down the words. But the conception is yours. The play was inspired by you. But for you I should never have begun it. Take my play, James; take it as your own. For yours it is. Put your name to it, and produce it, if you love me, under your own signature. If this hurts your pride, I will word my request differently. You alone are able to manage the business side of the production. You know the right men to go to. To approach them on behalf of a stranger’s work is far less likely to lead to success. I have assumed, you will see, that the play is certain to be produced. But that will only be so if you adopt it as your own. Claim the authorship, and all will be well.” Much more I wrote to James in the same strain; and my reward came next day in the shape of a telegram: “Accept thankfully.—Cloyster.” Of the play and its reception by the public there is no need to speak. The criticisms were all favourable. Neither the praise of the critics nor the applause of the public aroused any trace of jealousy in James. Their unanimous note of praise has been a source of pride to him. He is proud—ah, joy!—that I am to be his wife. I have blotted the last page of this commonplace love-story of mine. The moon has come out from behind a cloud, and the whole bay is one vast sheet of silver. I could sit here at my bedroom window and look at it all night. But then I should be sure to oversleep myself and be late for breakfast. I shall read what I have written once more, and then I shall go to bed. I think I shall wear my white muslin tomorrow. _(End of Miss Margaret Goodwin’s narrative.)_ PART TWO James Orlebar Cloyster’s Narrative CHAPTER 1 THE INVASION OF BOHEMIA It is curious to reflect that my marriage (which takes place today week) destroys once and for all my life’s ambition. I have never won through to the goal I longed for, and now I never shall. Ever since I can remember I have yearned to be known as a Bohemian. That was my ambition. I have ceased to struggle now. Married Bohemians live in Oakley Street, King’s Road, Chelsea. We are to rent a house in Halkett Place. Three years have passed since the excellent, but unsteady, steamship _Ibex_ brought me from Guernsey to Southampton. It was a sleepy, hot, and sticky wreck that answered to the name of James Orlebar Cloyster that morning; but I had my first youth and forty pounds, so that soap and water, followed by coffee and an omelette, soon restored me. The journey to Waterloo gave me opportunity for tobacco and reflection.