'Not quite that,' said Holroyd; 'it must stand as it is. What I'm going to ask you is this: I don't know any fellow I would care to ask but yourself. I want it published. I shall be out of England, probably with plenty of other matters to occupy me for some time. I want you to look after the manuscript for me while I'm away. Do you mind taking the trouble?' 'Not a bit, old fellow,' said Mark, 'no trouble in the world; only tying up the parcel each time, sending it off again. Well, I didn't mean that; but it's no trouble, really.' 'I dare say you won't be called upon to see it through the press,' said Holroyd; 'but if such a thing as an acceptance should happen, I should like you to make all the arrangements. You've had some experience in these things, and I haven't, and I shall be away too.' 'I'll do the best I can,' said Mark. 'What sort of a book is it?' 'It's a romance, as I said,' said Holroyd. 'I don't know that I can describe it more exactly: it----' 'Oh, it doesn't matter,' interrupted Mark. 'I can read it some time. What have you called it?' '"Glamour,"' said Holroyd, still with a sensitive shrinking at having to reveal what had long been a cherished secret. 'It isn't a society novel, I suppose?' 'No,' said Holroyd. 'I'm not much of a society man; I go out very little.' 'But you ought to, you know: you'll find people very glad to see you if you only cultivate them.' There was something, however, in Mark's manner of saying this that suggested a consciousness that this might be a purely personal experience. 'Shall I?' said Holroyd. 'I don't know. People are kind enough, but they can only be really glad to see any one who is able to amuse them or interest them, and that's natural enough. I can't flatter myself that I'm particularly interesting or amusing; any way, it's too late to think about that now.' 'You won't be able to do the hermit much over in Ceylon, will you?' 'I don't know. My father's plantation is in rather a remote part of the island. I don't think he has ever been very intimate with the other planters near him, and as I left the place when I was a child I have fewer friends there than here even. But there will be plenty to do if I am to learn the business, as he seems to wish.' 'Did he never think of having you over before?' 'He wanted me to come over and practise at the Colombo Bar, but that was soon after I was called, and I preferred to try my fortune in England first. I was the second son, you see, and while my brother John was alive I was left pretty well to my own devices. I went, as you know, to Colombo in my second Long, but only for a few weeks of course, and my father and I didn't get on together somehow. But he's ill now, and poor John died of dysentery, and he's alone, so even if I had had any practice to leave I could hardly refuse to go out to him. As it is, as far as that is concerned, I have nothing to keep me.'