“So Alter advises you to talk to Miss Fane-Herbert when you can?” Hartington said. “What’s the exact meaning of that?” “She knows a good deal of books,” said John easily. “But he doesn’t suggest that you should be tutored by her?” “Oh, no.” “Then it’s her talk that’s to do you good?” “Yes.” “Because it is _her_ talk--not for the sake of her knowledge?” “I suppose so.” Hartington smiled. Between them as they sat in the small cabin hung a large red-paper lantern, lighted by an electric lead. Hartington touched it with his foot, and set the light and shadows chasing each other round the Fiesole paintings and Dürer’s _Hare_. “Do you think I might ask you an extremely rude question?” he said. “It’s important. I think it’s relevant.” “I know what you are going to ask,” John answered. “About Fane-Herbert’s sister? I suppose you think I am a fool to be in love with her.” “It makes the whole business more complicated. It means that half the time when you think you are wanting one thing you are really wanting another. Now any consideration of the future will be hopelessly entangled with consideration of her.” John explained that, in truth, Margaret simplified the issue, because, as he said, her own ideas were so very like his own. He elaborated this theory until he could elaborate it no more. Then he stopped suddenly. “It’s so exciting,” he said, after a pause. “Everything is so exciting.” The excitement of it took his breath away. He steadied the red lamp, and watched its light glow through the tips of his fingers. Obviously he had forgotten that his life did not consist entirely in Margaret and literature. Of what use was it to remind him now that he was a midshipman, very young and altogether unknown, who earned one shilling and ninepence a day? of what use to speak of Ibble’s and Ibble’s wealth? Hartington decided not to trouble him that night, to leave unshattered so long as they would endure his vain, happy dreams. “Do you think,” John said, “that Mr. Alter would put in a word with a publisher about a novel?” “Probably. Have you written one? Have you a great work stored away secretly underneath your private till?” “No,” said John seriously; “but I could write one. A hundred thousand words. Suppose I did a thousand a day--or even five hundred--a couple of quarto pages.... There might be money in that.”