JOHN TOUCHWOOD. * * * * * DEAR ELEANOR,--I must say decidedly that I do not perceive any likelihood of George's health deriving much benefit from a voyage round the world. If he is threatened with sleeping sickness, it would be rash to expose him to a tropical climate. If he is suffering from a sluggish liver, he will get no benefit from lolling about in smoking-saloons, whatever the latitude and longitude. I have repeatedly helped George with his schemes to earn a living for himself and he has never failed to squander my money upon capricious race-horses. You know that I am always willing to come forward on behalf of Bertram and Viola; but their father must show signs of helping himself before I do anything more for him. I am sorry that I cannot offer you a good part in _Joan of Arc_; there is really nothing to suit you for I presume you would not care to accept the part of Joan's mother. However, it has now been decided to produce _Lucretia_ in April and I shall do my best to persuade Grohmann to offer you a part in that. Your affectionate brother-in-law, JOHN TOUCHWOOD. * * * * * John did not receive an answer to either of these letters, and out of an atmosphere of pained silence he managed to conjure optimistically an idea that Laurence and Eleanor had realized the justice of his point of view. "You do agree with me that they were going too far?" he asked Miss Hamilton; but she declined to express an opinion. "What's the good of having a confidential secretary, if I can't ask her advice about confidential matters?" he grumbled. "Are you dissatisfied with me?" "No, no, no. I'm not dissatisfied. What an exaggeration of my remark! I'm simply a little puzzled by your attitude. It seems to me--I may be wrong--that instead of ... well, at first you were always perfectly ready to talk about my relations and about me, whereas now you won't talk about anything except Joan of Arc. I'm really getting quite bored with Joan of Arc." "I was only an amateur when I began," she laughed. "Now I'm beginning to be professional." "I think it's a great mistake," said John, decidedly. "Suppose I insist upon having your advice?" "You'd find that dictation bears two meanings in English, to only one of which are you entitled under the terms of our contract." "Look here, have I done anything to offend you?" he asked, pathetically. But she would not be moved and held her pencil so conspicuously ready that the author was impaled upon it before he could escape and was soon hard at work dictating his first arrangement of the final scene in a kind of indignant absent-mindedness.