It was when his condition was at its worst that there gleamed a light through the tunnel of his despair. The editor of the _Yorkshire Telegraph_, who wanted another story by the Partingtons, with the shortest possible delay, wrote to him suggesting in the most delicate manner that life in New York would present an admirable setting for a tale, especially since the United States had come into the war, and offering to pay his passage to that salubrious city if he would favourably consider this proposal. And all at once Philip remembered having read in some book of physical geography, studied by him in happier boyish days, that the Atlantic in certain places was not less than seven miles deep.... He read this amiable epistle to his wife. “Upon my word, it sounds a very good plan,” he said brightly. “What do you say, Phœbe? It will give me the holiday of which you think I stand in need.” Phœbe shook her head. “Do you propose that I should come with you?” she asked. “Why should a holiday among the submarines do you more good than the Malvern Hills?” The thought of the deep holes in the Atlantic grew ever more rosy to Philip’s mind. Even the hideous notion of being torpedoed failed to take the colour out of it. “My dear, these are days in which a man must not mind taking risks,” he said. She smiled at him. “I know your fearless nature, darling,” she said; “but what is the point of running unnecessary risks?” “Local colour. There is a great deal in Mr. Etherington’s remarks.” “I don’t agree. I should think with our experience we ought to be able to describe New York without going there. We didn’t find it necessary to go to Athens, or Khartoum, or Mexico.” “True,” said he; “but perhaps my descriptions might have gained in veracity if we had. That was a tiresome letter to the _Yorkshire Telegraph_ about the spires on the Acropolis. If we had been there, we should have known that there weren’t any.” He fingered the stud-box in his pocket for a moment, and his fingers itched to drop it over a ship’s side. “My part of our joint work might gain in true artistic feeling,” he said, “if I described what I had actually seen. Art holds the mirror up to nature, you know.” “Yes, darling; but do you think Shakespeare meant that Art must hold the mirror up to New York?” asked she. “I fancy there is very little nature in New York.” He took a turn or two up and down the room, while the box positively burned his finger-tips. “I can’t help feeling as I do about it,” he said. “And, Phœbe, one of our earliest vows to each other was that each of us should respect the other’s literary conscience!” She got up. “You disarm me, dear,” she said. “Apply for your passport, and if they give it you, go. I only ask you to respect my feminine weakness and not make me come with you among all those horrid submarines.” They sealed their compact with a kiss.