"And not free from humour--by no means free!" cried Mr. Mason, laughing at the top of his voice (as he had never, never laughed at Saltburn-by-the-Sea). "But seriously, you are ending your later stories far too sadly. To come back to your last one--though I'm afraid it's coming back to you! I rejected it, and then, as I was driving home, I thought you would perhaps alter it, if I called and asked you before you sent it elsewhere. Don't you think you could soften your good father--just at the end?" "I couldn't," said the young fellow, with a candid stare; but his eyes fell under the cool, kindly scrutiny of the elderly man, who continued gazing at the well-shaped head, on which the hair was perhaps a trifle long and untidy. For once that day Wolff Mason was the equal of the occasion, and he knew it to his consolation. The occasion, moreover, was the very one to which he would have desired to rise. "Why couldn't you, my dear fellow?" "Because it isn't life." "Are you so sure that you know life?" "I know it as I find it," said the young fellow bitterly; and there was a pause. "Well, at any rate, you know that I like your stories." "I am thankful to hear it." "I want to accept them----" "You are very kind." "As many of them as ever you can write, and some day a long novel. I believe in you, Overton." "Oh, sir, you are more than kind--to a raw recruit--on the ladder which you yourself----" "My good Overton, why on earth didn't you mix those metaphors three months ago? Not that you're raw at all--unless it's with me!" Two frail hands were laid on the young man's shoulders. He answered dryly: "My other name isn't Overton. It's Over_man_. But I forgot, you said it wasn't your concern!" "Ah, well, but the man who is to make the name famous is becoming my very grave concern. You should have let me know that you were in our swim, my boy." "Before I was sure of keeping myself afloat? I thought I had a better chance as a--bad whist-player!" "Confound the boy!" cried Wolff Mason, "but you were perfectly right, though your work is better than your whist." "Then it was your magazine that I was writing for--you were the one man in England who could help me on--the whole situation was so liable to misconstruction!" "It was--it was. And, now I think of it, you never brought me an introduction nor asked for an interview, nor wrote me a single superfluous line!" "I wanted you to accept my stuff," said the young fellow, smiling. But behind his spectacles the editor's eyes sparkled for an instant with something more than human kindness. He had made the grand discovery of his editorial life. He had discovered the ideal contributor, and for the moment he could only think of him as a young man of letters. Now, however, his right hand had found its way into that of young Overman, as he said with a comic solemnity: