"But I must not wear my heart out," she replied, laughingly. "So I came down here for a month to get fresh material. I am writing a novel of Cornish peasant life--I want to photograph the people with all their lights and shades, all their faiths and superstitions, all their ways of speech and thought--the first thorough study ever made of a fast-fading phase of Old English life. You see, I didn't know what to do; I feared the public would be tired of my sailor-stories and I thought I'd locate my next story on land. Accident determined its environment. I learnt, by chance, that we had some poor relatives in Trepolpen, whom my people had dropped, and so I thought I'd pick them up again, and turn them into 'copy,' and I welcomed the opportunity of making at the same time the acquaintance of the sea, which, as I think I told you, I have never seen before. You see I was poor myself till _The Cherub That Sits Up Aloft_ showered down the gold, and, being a Cockney, had never been able to afford a trip to the seaside." "My poor Ellaline!" he said, kissing her candid lips. She was such an inveterate truth-teller that he could only respect and admire and adore--though she fell from heaven. Her candor infected him. He felt an overwhelming paroxysm of veracity. The mask could be dropped now. Did she not love John Beveridge? "Now I see why you rave so over literary people!" he said. "You are dipped in ink yourself." "Yes," she said with a happy smile, "there is nobody I admire so much as our great writers." "But you would not love me more, if I were a great writer?" he said anxiously. "No, certainly not. I couldn't," she said decisively. He stooped and kissed her gratefully. "Thank you for that, my sweet Ellaline. And now I think I can safely confess that I am Addiper." She gave a little shriek. Her face turned white. "Addiper!" she breathed. "Yes, dearest, it is my _nom de guerre_. I am Addiper, the writer you admire so much, the man with whose school, you were pleased to say, the future lies." "Addiper!" she said again. "Impossible! why you said you did not get your living by art of any kind." "Of course I don't!" he said. "Books like mine--all style, no sentiment, morals or theology--never pay. Fortunately I am able to publish them at my own expense. I write only for writers. That is why you like me. Successful writers are those who write for readers, just as popular painters are those who paint for spectators." The poor little face was ashen gray now. The surprise was too much for the fragile little beauty. "Then you really are Addiper!" she said in low, slow tones. "Yes, dearest," he said not without a touch of pride. "I am Addiper--and in you, love, I have found a fresh fount of inspiration. You shall be the guiding star of my work, my rare Ellaline, my pearl, my beryl. Ah, this is a great turning-point in my life. To-day I enter into my third manner."