“Well,” replied the printer, “the men don’t seem to think so, it sounds ridiculous and is probably ‘all my eye’--I only mention it to account for the delay. They get gassing and fussing, and won’t get on with the job. However, as I say, to-morrow for certain.” After his departure Mr. Cheltenham sat staring at the wall and drumming on his table for a while. Then he rang for his typist and dictated a letter to Mr. Kato, informing him that the proofs of his book would be ready for him if he would call in the next day. He, Mr. Cheltenham, would then explain to him, Mr. Kato, what it was necessary for him to do regarding them. Then, in accordance with doctor’s orders, he went home early. Mr. Kato arrived punctually at 3.30, and the publisher was immediately impressed by his appearance. He looked shrunken and wasted. His face was drawn and hollowed, and his eyes were those of one from whom sleep has gone, and to whom fear has come. Mr. Cheltenham began apologising for the leisurely behaviour of the proofs, but Mr. Kato obviously took little interest on what he was saying. “The publication date will be February 13th”--as he said this, Mr. Cheltenham paused. Till he made the remark he had not considered the date of publication definitely. Why then had he mentioned February 13th so decisively? The date seemed vaguely familiar, as if he had heard it recently in some other connection. “Yes,” said Mr. Kato listlessly. “You don’t look very fit, if I may say so,” said Mr. Cheltenham. “I hope you’re not worrying about the book. I can assure you there’s not the slightest need to. Everything is progressing quite satisfactorily, and I feel certain that you will have an amazingly favourable Press.” “I do not worry about it,” said Mr. Kato--and then paused, his haggard eyes fixed on Mr. Cheltenham’s face. (“As if,” thought the latter, “he wants sympathy pretty badly, and I’m the first person who has shown him any.”) Suddenly Mr. Kato’s expression changed, he looked sharply behind him, and a hunted look overspread his face. “Please excuse,” he muttered, “my nerves are not so good, I think,” and he got heavily up and went out. “Unless he does something about it,” thought the publisher, “this will be the last as well as the first book he has his name to. Funny thing! If I’d written it, I should be thrilling with excitement to see it published, but he seems bored to death with it. He is the easiest author I’ve ever had to deal with. Poets are usually the devil--fussing about perfectly fatuous little details and trying to teach me my business. But he’s a model.”