What elusive quality is it that makes for success in a newspaper? Is it purely a literary one, or a typographical one? Is it the choice of matter, or the arrangement of type? Perhaps a little of each. What it was that made the _Brockley Aristocrat_ successful from its very commencement may have been the individuality that lived in its pages. The deft touch of genius, the gloss and the brilliance of superlative merit. In its first number it claimed, modestly enough, to be of its kind unique. "The _Brockley Aristocrat_," said the restrained notice, "will contain all the news worth reading and all the views worth writing: it will be a newspaper devoted to the best interests of the best people." Mr. Nape, its nominal editor, rose nobly to his responsibilities. Most assiduously did he apply himself to the study of all that was most noteworthy in current journalism. He studied the back-files of the _Saturday Review_ and acquired the style caustic, he diligently acquainted himself with the Imperialism of the _Spectator_ and the _National Review_, and instantly secured the soundest of views on the Navy. He read from cover to cover the words of Miss Corelli and learnt all about editors: how bad editors are grossly fat and have pronounced Hebraic features, and how good editors are pretty scarce. He took lessons in journalism from a gentleman who guaranteed to turn a dustman into a reviewer in twelve lessons, and he read the life of Delane. Little wonder that the _Aristocrat_ came to fame in a short space of time with such determined strivings after perfection behind it. Little wonder that people began to read it, and to look forward to Friday (when it was published) and to take sides in the controversy that raged between its proprietor and the owner of the _Lewisham and Lee Mail_. "It isn’t that I want them to take sides," said the Duke, "but I want to get them interested in me. It was the only method I could think of. You see I’m naturally of a shy and shrinking disposition, and I find it difficult to convey to comparative strangers a sense of my all-round excellences." He was paying one of his rare visits to Alicia in her own home. The outward and visible result of his hurricane courtship glittered on the third finger of her left hand. "But surely," she urged a little impatiently—she was a real girl and this is a true story—"you have some plans for the future, you do not intend to end your days in Brockley?" He nodded his head. "I can imagine nothing more satisfying," he said, "than to pass to the dark beyond, to the bourne from which—in the midst of mine own people." "The calm way in which you have appropriated us all," she said, with a smile which was half amusement and half vexation, "is too appalling. But, dear, there is me." "There is you," he repeated, with a twinkle in his eyes, "I have thought of that—you shall stay and share my glories." "In the suburbs?" She lifted her eyebrows.