"Well, I don't understand it, but I know he says the book has plunged him into fresh debt," returned Winny, gloomily. "I think he has had to pay an immense deal to get it out." Hamish was turning over the leaves of the book as he stood. Winny at once offered to lend it him: there were two or three copies about the house, she said. Accepting the offer, for he really wished to see the good and great alterations Gerald must have made, Hamish was putting the three volumes under his arm when the street door opened, and Gerald came running up. "Well, old friend!" cried Hamish, heartily, as he shook Gerald's hand. "I came to wish you joy." Winny disappeared. Never feeling altogether at ease in the presence of her clever, stern, arbitrary husband, she was glad to get away from it when she could. Hamish and Gerald stood at the window, talking together in the fading light, their theme Gerald's book, the reviews, and other matters connected with it. Hamish spoke the true sentiments of his heart when he said how glad and proud he was, for Gerald's sake. "I have been telling your wife that it is the first stepping-stone to fortune. It must be a great success, Gerald." "Ah, I thought you were a little _out_ in the opinion you formed of it," said Gerald loftily. "I am thankful it has proved so. You have taken pains to alter it, Gerald." "Not much: _I_ thought it did very well as it was. And the result proves I was right," added Gerald complacently. "Have you read the reviews?" "I should think I have," said Hamish warmly. "They brought me here tonight. Reviews such as those will take the public by storm." "Yes, they tell rather a different tale from the verdict passed by you. _You_ assured me I should never succeed in fiction; had mistaken my vocation; got no elements for it within me; might shut up shop. What do the reviews say? Look at that one in the _Snarler_," continued Gerald, snatching up that noted authority, and holding it to the twilight, formed by the remnant of day and the light of the street-lamps, while he read an extract from its pages aloud. "We do not know how to find terms of praise sufficiently high for this marvellously beautiful book of fiction. The grateful public, now running after its three volumes, cannot be supplied fast enough. From the first page to the last, attention is rapturously enchained; one cannot put the book down----" "And so on, and so on," continued Gerald, breaking off the laudatory recital suddenly, and flinging the paper behind him again. "No good to continue, as you've read it. Yes, that is praise from the _Snarler_. Worth having, I take it," he concluded in unmistakable triumph over his fellow-man and author, quite unconscious that poor simple Winny had let the cat out of the bag. "If reviews ever sell a book, these must sell yours, Gerald."