‘Yes, absolutely your only one,’ said the small figure sitting on the box, with his hands resting on his knees. He was a clever-looking little ghost, eight or nine inches high, clean shaven, with his hair brushed back to hide an evidently increasing tendency to baldness--he was not in his first youth. He was plainly but neatly dressed, though his clothes looked a little shiny at the seams. His face was careworn and anxious in its expression, but attractive, and his manners were unobjectionable. ‘So you are my only chance, are you? May I ask where you came from?’ ‘Oh, I am sent here from the “Bureau of Chances”; we have to go just wherever we are sent, you know; we haven’t any choice in the matter.’ ‘Yes, of course, that stands to reason; I can readily understand no ghost of the slightest financial instinct would have chosen me to come to; I am all the more obliged for any chance at all, on any terms. It is very encouraging to have you sit there; I like it. I think I will try and do some work.’ ‘Yes, I would,’ said the little Ghost, with alacrity. The Author leaned back, and, clasping his hands behind his head, he fixed his eyes on the little Ghost, and began: ‘It is to be a story, you know--a romance. _She_ is to be the central figure--a splendid red-haired creature, with great instincts, primeval, untrained, capacious; she is to _devour_ the world; she can’t wait for experience; she hungers and thirsts for sensations; she is to _boom_ through the story--no lagging, no questioning; see?’ ‘Yes,’ nodded the little Ghost. ‘And then,’ continued the Author, ‘she is to meet the hero; he is to be Tradition, Culture, Development, Conservatism; and there will be, so to speak, no one else in the world except these two forces, and the battle royal will be between these two.’ ‘Yes,’ nodded the little Ghost. ‘I think I will write that out before I go any further with the plot.’ ‘I would,’ said the little Ghost. ‘Well, here goes,’ said the Author, drawing himself up to the table. He wrote for some hours; his pen moved ceaselessly over the pages, and from time to time he laid a sheet at the feet of the little Ghost. The clock struck twelve, the clock struck one; the Author’s hair fell lankly over his pale face; on and on went his pen. At two, he looked up and saw the little Ghost sitting, all alert, on the cuff-box, with his blue eyes wide open; he gave a bright little smile in answer to the Author’s glance. ‘Why bless me! I had clean forgotten you! aren’t you tired?’ said the Author. ‘Not in the least; I feel quite fresh.’ ‘Upon my word, you look it; I believe you are going to be a tough little chap, and will see me through. And now where will you sleep?’ ‘Why, here, anywhere--I am not particular.’ ‘Aren’t you hungry? you haven’t had anything to eat since you came. By the way, what do you eat?’ ‘Oh, I’m all right, don’t bother about me; I live very well on hope, and we are supposed to supply that ourselves.’