"Yes, I did," he answered, suavely, "but not, unfortunately, until this morning. I leave the office at four in the afternoon, you know, and every Thursday I am at our printing-plant at Newark. But in connection with your wire, Miss Vaughan, while----" "Have you done what I asked?" Mr. Slater's smile waned and flickered and quite went out; he was beginning to lose patience with his eccentric authoress. "Your request, Miss Vaughan, was an impossible one." "But it _must_ be done!" she cried, passionately. He shrugged his shoulders, ambiguously. "And it _shall_ be done!" she cried again, even more passionately. Then she added, in a calmer voice, watching his face: "It must be done, though I surrender everything to you, royalties, copyright, _everything_!" "Your book is out, Miss Vaughan!" His words sounded to her like the snap of a steel trap. She said nothing, and made no move, but looked up at him, dazed. "In fact," he went on, "it has already received three reviews, in response to my advance copies. And I might add that its career will be phenomenal, simply phenomenal! Here are three clippings from yesterday's papers; all of them, as you can see, highly favorable--in fact, enthusiastic. What more could you ask for? Indeed, you are _made_, Miss Vaughan--_made_!" She took the three long ribbons of paper with unconscious hands, still holding them at arm's length before her. Her eyes were still on Mr. Henry Slater. Something in her look made him nervous. He smiled slightly, bowed, and waited for her to speak. "You are made, Miss Vaughan--_made_!" he repeated, with simulated joyousness. Still she did not speak. He turned to his desk with an expression which was intended, perhaps, to denote that he was a very busy man, and that he himself had his troubles. Then the shadow of a frown crept over his usually well-controlled features. But still the woman with the ribbons of papers did not move. He called one of his assistants. "Henry, show Miss Vaughan to her carriage, please--Miss Vaughan, this lady here, Henry. I think she is not well!" She had dreamed her dream. CHAPTER XXIX DESINAT IN PISCEM, MULIER FORMOSA SUPERNE ... A life By love's black frost all blighted and foregone, Glad that it suffers not; with sorrow in Its poor thin laughter sadder far than tears. Ah, more than pain in that abysmal breast Each broken, dark, irresolute delight! JOHN HARTLEY, "Street Dust." To wear love's brand you must bear love's burn.--"The Silver Poppy." It was the second morning after Cordelia's seemingly whimsical return to New York that Hartley awoke in an indeterminate gray vapor of impending evil. A feeling of chill nausea crept over him as he dressed, and, in a sudden fit of weakness, he fell back on the bed, filled with the strong man's unreasoning, weak terror of illness.