Some quality, at which the writer herself was secretly surprised, was found by the public and the reviewers alike in the slight little story. It met with something that very nearly approached the reception predicted for it so gushingly by the enthusiastic Lady Honoret. Various people, their names for the most part well known to Lydia through the agency of Aunt Evelyn and her ladies’ paper, asked to meet her, and her publisher’s advertising-manager wrote and asked for her photograph, to appear in the Press. Lady Honoret was triumphant. “A child--a young, fresh child of eighteen--isn’t it too, too Arcadian?” she would inquire of her friends, although Lydia, at first rather inclined to be offended at having such juvenility thrust upon her, had already distinctly stated that she was twenty. Then, it seemed with paralyzing suddenness, the day came when Lady Honoret said to her without any preliminary at all: “Why don’t you leave that d’eadful shop--I’m sure it _is_ d’eadful--and give up your _whole_ time to your real work?” Why? Lydia could think of innumerable reasons, although she might not be disposed to put them before Lady Honoret. Because it was well known to Aunt Beryl, Grandpapa, Rosie Graham, everybody--that to leave a good post unless it were for a better one, was a wanton and foolish flying in the face of Providence--because Mr. Monteagle Almond would revoke all his good opinion of her, after she had justified his recommendation of her so splendidly--because Grandpapa would call her a little fool, whose head had been turned--and, finally, because the writing of a successful first novel could not be looked upon in the light of earning one’s own living, as Lydia and Lydia’s relations understood the term. This last was the reason she chose to give Lady Honoret: “I ought to do something for myself. My aunt and uncle, who brought me up, couldn’t afford to have me living at home doing nothing at all--it wouldn’t be fair.” “Oh, no, no!” cried Lady Honoret with a slight shudder. “I’m sure you oughtn’t to live with any uncle and aunt--they’re always such Philistines, too--but if you _really_ have to think about the te’ible money part of it, of course you know you’re bound to make a little money from writing. Only I suppose you simply can’t bear to think of writing for money? It would paralyze it all?” Lydia did not like to say that all that she was afraid of was that the money made by writing would be insufficient in quantity, so she remained silent, and Lady Honoret squeezed her hand sympathetically. “You must think it all over, you dear little strange, wild thing,” she declared affectionately, “and then if you settle to leave your shop, as I’m sure you ought, you must let me know.” And she said nothing more of her astonishing suggestion.