Scarcely had he emerged into the world before he met and was married to Mrs. Eustace Greyne, then Miss Eugenia Hannibal-Barker. He had had no time to sow a single oat, wild or otherwise; no time to adore a barmaid, or wish to have his name linked with that of an actress; no time to do anything wrong, or even to know, with the complete accuracy desired by all persevering young men, what was really wrong. Miss Eugenia Hannibal-Barker sailed upon his horizon, and he struck his flag to matrimony. Ever since then he had been her husband, and had never, even for one second, emerged beyond the boundaries of the most intellectual respectability. He was the most innocent of men, although he knew all the important editors in London. Swaddled in money by his successful wife, he considered her a goddess. She poured the thousands into Coutts’ Bank, and with the arrival of each fresh thousand he was more firmly convinced that she was a goddess. To say he looked up to her would be too mild. As the Cockney tourist in Chamonix peers at the summit of Mont Blanc, he peered at Mrs. Greyne. And when, finally, she bought the lease of the mansion in Belgrave Square, he knew her Delphic. So now he appeared in the oracle’s retreat respectfully, “What is it, Eugenia?” upon his admiring lips. “Sit down, my husband,” she murmured. Mr. Greyne subsided by the fire, placing his pointed patent-leather toes upon the burnished fender. Without the fog grew deeper, and the chorus of the muffin bells more plaintive. The fire-light, flickering over Mrs. Greyne’s majestic features, made them look Rembrandtesque. Her large, oxlike eyes were fixed and thoughtful. After a pause, she said: “Eustace, I shall have to send you upon a mission.” “A mission, Eugenia!” said Mr. Greyne in great surprise. “A mission of the utmost importance, the utmost delicacy.” “Has it anything to do with Romeike & Curtice?” “No.” “Will it take me far?” “That is my trouble. It will take you very far.” “Out of London?” “Oh, yes.” “Out of—not out of England?” “Yes; it will take you to Algeria.” “Good gracious!” cried Mr. Greyne. Mrs. Greyne sighed. “Good gracious!” Mr. Greyne repeated after a short interval. “Am I to go alone?” “Of course you must take Darrell.” Darrell was Mr. Greyne’s valet. “And what am I to do at Algiers?” “You must obtain for me there the whole of the material for book six of ‘Catherine’s Repentance.’” “Catherine’s Repentance” was the gigantic novel upon which Mrs. Greyne was at that moment engaged. “I will not disguise from you, Eustace,” continued Mrs. Greyne, looking increasingly Rembrandtesque, “that, in my present work, I am taking a somewhat new departure.” “Well, but we are very comfortable here,” said Mr. Greyne.