I took the gallant Sidney for a fifteen-minute stroll up and down the length of the Belmont Park Road. Poor Angelina! He came, as he expressed it, “like a bird.” Give him a sec. to slip on a pair of boots, he said, and he would be with me in two ticks. He was so busy getting his hat and stick from the stand in the passage that he quite forgot to tell the lady that he was going out, and, as we left, I saw her with the tail of my eye sitting stolidly on the sofa, still wearing patiently the expression of her comic-paper portraits. The task of explaining was easier than it had been with Hatton. “Sorry to drag you out, Price,” I said, as we went down the steps. “Don’t mention it, Mr. Cloyster,” he said. “Norah won’t mind a bit of a sit by herself. Looked in to have a chat, or is there anything I can do?” “It’s like this,” I said. “You know I write a good deal?” “Yes.” “Well, it has occurred to me that, if I go on turning out quantities of stuff under my own name, there’s a danger of the public getting tired of me.” He nodded. “Now, I’m with you there, mind you,” he said. “‘Can’t have too much of a good thing,’ some chaps say. I say, ‘Yes, you can.’ Stands to reason a chap can’t go on writing and writing without making a bloomer every now and then. What he wants is to take his time over it. Look at all the real swells—’Erbert Spencer, Marie Corelli, and what not—you don’t find them pushing it out every day of the year. They wait a bit and have a look round, and then they start again when they’re ready. Stands to reason that’s the only way.” “Quite right,” I said; “but the difficulty, if you live by writing, is that you must turn out a good deal, or you don’t make enough to live on. I’ve got to go on getting stuff published, but I don’t want people to be always seeing my name about.” “You mean, adopt a _nom de ploom_?” “That’s the sort of idea; but I’m going to vary it a little.” And I explained my plan. “But why me?” he asked, when he had understood the scheme. “What made you think of me?” “The fact is, my dear fellow,” I said, “this writing is a game where personality counts to an enormous extent. The man who signs my Society dialogues will probably come into personal contact with the editors of the papers in which they appear. He will be asked to call at their offices. So you see I must have a man who looks as if he had written the stuff.” “I see,” he said complacently. “Dressy sort of chap. Chap who looks as if he knew a thing or two.” “Yes. I couldn’t get Alf Joblin, for instance.” We laughed together at the notion. “Poor old Alf!” said Sidney Price. “Now you probably know a good deal about Society?”