"One pays dearly for fame," reflected the author. "What a confounded nuisance it is to waste all this time when there are the last proofs of 'What Caste?' to be done for the nine-o'clock post to-morrow morning! Goodness knows what time I shall get to bed to-night!" Then Mrs. Selldon thought regretfully of the comfortable easy chair that she usually enjoyed after dinner, and the ten minutes' nap, and the congenial needle-work. And Mark Shrewsbury thought of his chambers in Pump Court, and longed for his type-writer, and his books, and his swivel chair, and his favourite meerschaum. "I should be less afraid to talk if there were not always the horrible idea that he may take down what one says," thought Mrs. Selldon. "I should be less bored if she would only be her natural self," reflected the author. "And would not talk prim platitudes." (This was hard, for he had talked nothing else himself.) "Does she think she is so interesting that I am likely to study her for my next book?" "Have you been abroad this summer?" inquired Mrs. Selldon, making another spasmodic attempt at conversation. "No, I detest travelling," replied Mark Shrewsbury. "When I need change I just settle down in some quiet country district for a few months--somewhere near Windsor, or Reigate, or Muddleton. There is nothing to my mind like our English scenery." "Oh, do you know Muddleton?" exclaimed Mrs. Selldon. "Is it not a charming little place? I often stay in the neighbourhood with the Milton- Cleaves." "I know Milton-Cleave well," said the author. "A capital fellow, quite the typical country gentleman." "Is he not?" said Mrs. Selldon, much relieved to have found this subject in common. "His wife is a great friend of mine; she is full of life and energy, and does an immense amount of good. Did you say you had stayed with them?" "No, but last year I took a house in that neighbourhood for a few months; a most charming little place it was, just fit for a lonely bachelor. I dare say you remember it--Ivy Cottage, on the Newton Road." "Did you stay there? Now what a curious coincidence! Only this morning I heard from Mrs. Milton-Cleave that Ivy Cottage has been taken this summer by a Mr. Sigismund Zaluski, a Polish merchant, who is doing untold harm in the neighbourhood. He is a very clever, unscrupulous man, and has managed to take in almost every one." "Why, what is he? A swindler? Or a burglar in disguise, like the _House on the Marsh_ fellow?" asked the author, with a little twinkle of amusement in his face.