There’s no doubt that the Reverend, Blake and I have, between us, put a fairly considerable spoke in Mr. Cloyster’s literary wheel. But what am I to do? To begin with, it’s no use my telling Norah about the affair, because it would do her no good, and might tend possibly to lessen her valuation of my capabilities. At present, my dialogues dazzle her; and once your _fiancée_ is dazzled the basis of matrimonial happiness is assured. Again, looking at it from Mr. Cloyster’s point of view, what good would it be to him if I were to stop writing? Both the editor and the public have realised by now that his work is only second-rate. He can never hope to get a tenth of his original prices, even if his work is accepted, which it won’t be; for directly I leave his market clear, someone else will collar it slap off. Besides, I’ve no right to stop my dialogues. My duty to Norah is greater than my duty to Mr. Cloyster. Unless I continue to be paid by literature I shall not be able to marry Norah until three years next quarter. The “Moon” has passed a rule about it, and an official who marries on an income not larger than eighty pounds per annum is liable to dismissal without notice. Norah’s mother wouldn’t let her wait three years, and though fellows have been known to have had a couple of kids at the time of their official marriage, I personally couldn’t stand the wear and tear of that hole-and-corner business. It couldn’t be done. _(End of Sidney Price’s narrative_.) Julian Eversleigh’s Narrative CHAPTER 21 THE TRANSPOSITION OF SENTIMENT It is all very, very queer. I do not understand it at all. It makes me sleepy to think about it. A month ago I hated Eva. Tomorrow I marry her by special licence. Now, what _about_ this? My brain is not working properly. I am becoming jerky. I tried to work the thing out algebraically. I wrote it down as an equation, thus:— HATRED, denoted by x + Eva. REVERSE OF HATRED, “ “ y + Eva ONE MONTH “ “ z. From which we get:— x + Eva = (y + Eva)z. And if anybody can tell me what that means (if it means anything—which I doubt) I shall be grateful. As I said before, my brain is not working properly. There is no doubt that my temperament has changed, and in a very short space of time. A month ago I was soured, cynical, I didn’t brush my hair, and I slept too much. I talked a good deal about Life. Now I am blithe and optimistic. I use pomade, part in the middle, and sleep eight hours and no more. I have not made an epigram for days. It is all very queer. I took a new attitude towards life at about a quarter to three on the morning after the Gunton-Cresswells’s dance. I had waited for James in his rooms. He had been to the dance. Examine me for a moment as I wait there.