The Count reflected. What little light the London day afforded fell full upon his long narrow face, upon the pointed Velasquez chin, the receding iron-grey hair brushed straight back. "And the fact that the writer is supporting herself and a worn-out old uncle by her pen will make no difference?" John Craik hesitated for a moment. "Not the least," he then said. "You seem to know the writer." "I do, and I am interested in her." "A lady?" John Craik was dotting his i's with the contemplativeness of artistic finish. "Essentially so." "And poor?" "Yes, and proud as--" "A Spaniard," suggested John Craik. "If you will. It is a vice which has almost become a virtue in these democratic days." John Craik looked up. "I will do what I can, Lloseta," he said. "But she is not a great writer, and will never become one." "I know that. Some day she will become a great lady, or I know nothing of them." Craik was still busy touching up his manuscript. "I have never seen her," he said. "But the impression I received from her manuscripts is that she is a girl who has lived a simple life among a simple people. She has seen a great deal of nature, out-of-door nature, which is pure, and cannot be too deeply studied. She has seen very little of human nature, which is not so pure as it might be. That is her chief charm of style, a high-minded purity. She does not describe the gutter and think she is writing of the street. By the way, I am expecting her here" (he paused, and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece) "in exactly two minutes." The Count rose quickly and took his hat. As he extended his hand to say "Good-bye" there was a rap at the door. The discreet youth who told John Craik's falsehoods for him came in and handed his master a slip of paper with a name written thereon. Craik read the inscription, crumpled up the paper, and threw it into the waste-paper basket. "In one minute," he said, and the liar withdrew. Cipriani de Lloseta, with a quiet deliberation which was sometimes almost dramatic, stooped over the paper basket and recovered the crumpled slip of paper. He did not unfold it, but held it out, crushed up in his closed fist. "Miss Eve Challoner," he said. John Craik nodded. De Lloseta laughed and threw the paper into the fire. "I must not be seen. Where do you propose to put me?" "Go upstairs instead of down," replied John Craik, as if he had been asked the same question before. "Wait on the next landing until you hear this door close; you may then escape in safety." "Thanks--good-bye." "Good-bye." When Eve entered the room, John Craik was writing. He rose with a bow savouring of a politer age than ours, and held out his hand. "At last," he said, "I have prevailed upon you to come and see me. Will you sit down? The chair is shabby, but great men and women have sat in it."