He took Celia's silence for consent, and they went together to the big shop in Oxford Street, and seated themselves at a table. They both ordered a cup of tea and a roll and butter; Celia would have liked to have added the omnipotent bun, but refrained; for, somehow, she knew that he could not afford one. "Do you like the life, in there?" he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the Museum. "Dreadful grind, isn't it? But, somehow, it gets hold of you; there's a kind of fascination in literature." He spoke the magic word with the air of quite an old, old man of letters. "I ought to have been a grocer. My father's got a shop in Middleswick; he calls it The Emporium. I think that's why I couldn't stick it. Pity, isn't it? for it's a rattling good business. Another thing; I couldn't stand the apron. Guv'nor insisted on the apron; 'begin from the beginning' sort of thing, you know. And then I felt the call of literature. Fond of reading, and all that. You know?" Celia nodded. That tender heart of hers was quite ready with its comprehension and sympathy. "I hope you will succeed; but if you don't--Ah, well; you can go back," she said, half-enviously. "No; one doesn't go back," he said, with a gravity that sat curiously on his boyish face. "Once you've got the fever, you've got it for life. Tiger tasting blood, you know. I'd rather be a literary man than--than the German Emperor. Of course, I'm hoping to do better things; but even the stuff I do makes me--oh, well, kind of happy. Every time I get a proof something runs through me, something grateful and comforting--like the cocoa. I mean to get on to fiction presently." He blushed like a girl, and looked at her timidly, with the appealing look of a dog in his eyes. "I've tried my hand already at a short story or two." He paused. "I say"--hesitatingly, his eyes still more dog-like--"you are so awfully kind, I wonder whether you'd mind looking at one of my things. Oh, of course, it's too much to ask! You're busy--you work hard, I know; I've watched you." "Why, I shall be very pleased to read something you have written," said Celia, smiling encouragement. "You will! Oh, that's stunning of you! I'll send you a short story to-night, if you'll give me your address. But perhaps you'd rather not," he added, quickly. "Why not?" said Celia. She gave it to him. "I'll send it," he whispered; but as he spoke, his hand went towards his breast-pocket. Celia tried not to smile; for she saw what was coming.