I did not greatly care what Lichfield said one way or the other. I was too deeply engrossed: first, in correcting the final proofs of _Afield_, my second book, which appeared that spring and was built around--there is no harm in saying now,--my relations with Gillian Hardress; secondly, in the remunerative and uninteresting task of writing for _Woman's Weekly_ five "wholesome love-stories with a dash of humor," in which She either fell into His arms "with a contented sigh" or else "their lips met" somewhere toward the ending of the seventh page; and, thirdly, in diverting myself with Celia Reindan.... 4 That, though, is a business I shall not detail, because it was one of the very vulgarest sort. It was the logical outgrowth of my admiration for her yellow hair,--she did have extraordinary hair, confound her! --and of a few moonlit nights. It was simply the result of our common vanity and of her book-fed sentimentality and, eventually, of her unbridled temper; and in nature the compound was an unsavoury mess which thoroughly delighted Lichfield. Lichfield will be only too glad, even nowadays, to discourse to you of how I got wedged in that infernal transom, and of how Celia alarmed everybody within two blocks of her bedroom by her wild yells. 5 I had meanwhile decided, first, to write another and a better book than _The Apostates_ or _Afield_ had ever pretended to be; and afterward to marry Rosalind Jemmett, whom I found, in my too-hackneyed but habitual phrase, "adorable." For this Rosalind was an eminently "sensible match," and as such, I considered, quite appropriate for a Townsend. The main thing though, to me, was to write the book of which I had already the central idea,--very vague, as yet, but of an unquestionable magnificence. Development of it, on an at all commensurate scale, necessitated many inconveniences, and among them, the finding of someone who would assist me in imbuing the love-scenes--of which there must unfortunately be a great many--with reality; and for the tale's _milieu_ I again pitched upon the Green Chalybeate,--where, as you may remember, I first met with Stella. So I said a not unpromising farewell to Rosalind Jemmett, who was going into Canada for the summer. She was quite frankly grieved by the absolute necessity of my taking a rigorous course of the Chalybeate waters, but agreed with me that one's health is not to be trifled with. And of course she would write if I really wanted her to, though she couldn't imagine _why_--But I explained why, with not a little detail. And she told me, truthfully, that I was talking like an idiot; and was not, I thought, irrevocably disgusted by my idiocy. So that, all in all, I was not discontented when I left her.