Mr. Vivian Howard did not rise; stretched a white hand to Bill. This man had an appreciation of the position he had won. This man stood for English literature. Within a wide estimate of public opinion, and within that immense estimate of him that was his own, this man stood for literature. In a manner worthy of his proud standing this man comported himself. The talents that were his belonged to the nation, and very freely he gave them to the people. This man did not deny himself to the crowd as another might have denied himself. Of him it never could be said that he missed opportunity to let the public feed upon him. This man made such opportunities. Where excitement was, there this man, pausing between his novels, would step in. If a murder-trial had the public attention this man would write upon that trial; if interest were fixed upon a trade dispute this man would by some means draw that interest upon himself. Nothing was too small for this man. Walking the public places he did not shrink from recognition; he gladly permitted it. Not once but many times, coming upon a stranger reading one of his novels, he had announced himself; autographed the copy. This man's character was wholly in keeping with his gifts. Yet beautifully he could preserve the dignity that was his right. Preserving it now, he gave his hand to Bill but did not move his position. “It is a great pleasure to me to meet you, sir,” Bill told him. “You have only lately joined the ranks of journalism, Mr. Bitt tells me,” Mr. Vivian Howard graciously replied. “It is the stepping-stone to literature. Never forget that. Never lose sight of that. I shall watch your career with the greatest interest.” Mr. Bitt broke in a trifle impatiently: “Well, well, we must keep to business just now. Mr. Howard will kindly give us a daily interview, Wyvern, until the feuilleton starts, or until the cat is found. You'd better--” Bill took a pace back; faced them both. “No need,” he cried in bursting words. “The cat is found!” The cigarette dropped from Mr. Vivian Howard's lip to his waistcoat. He brushed at it violently; burnt his fingers; brushed again; swore with a ferocity that would have astonished his admirers; sprang to his feet amid a little shower of sparks and cloud of ash. “Found!” he exclaimed; jabbed a burnt finger in his mouth and thickly repeated, “Found!” Mr. Bitt simultaneously rose. “Found?” cried Mr. Bitt. “What the--” “I have the finder here,” Bill told them; stepped to the door. On legs that shook my agitated George advanced. Mr. Vivian Howard drew forth his suffering finger with a loud pop; made three hasty strides to George; took the cat. “Abishag!” he cried in ecstasy, “Abishag!” In very gloomy tones Mr. Bitt announced that he was bust. “Well, I'm bust!” he said. “I'm bust. It _is_ your cat, eh?” Mr. Vivian Howard nodded the head he was bending over his Abishag.