Adrian and Clytie were but lately back from their wedding-trip. Adrian, after several years of unproductive traffic in exotic literature, had finally made a hit; he had been able not only to lay a telling piece of work at the dear one's feet, but also--by a slight discounting of future certainties--to put a good deal of money in his purse. He had at last found a way to turn his "European atmosphere" and his "historical perspective" to profitable account,--to write something that thousands were willing to read and to pay for. Thirty thousand was the number thus far; and that number, reached within six weeks, meant a hundred thousand before the "run" should be over. His method involved simply a familiar offhand treatment of royalty, backed up by an excess of beauty, bravery, sword-play, costume, and irresponsible and impossible incident. "The only wonder is," he said, "that I shouldn't have taken up with this before. Anybody can do it; almost everybody else has done it." Clytie was delighted by this sudden showy stroke of fortune, and readily allowed Adrian's long string of hints and intimations--they had come rolling in thick and fast through the advancing summer--to solidify into a concrete proposal. "With this and my little investments," he said fondly, "we might rub along very decently." "I hope so," said Clytie. "Let's try." "Let's." The Whylands were also of those who climbed the granite steps. Mrs. Whyland had required a little urging, as on some previous occasions. "I hope you won't make difficulties," her husband had said. "Mrs. Pence is a nice enough woman, as women go; and since my new relations with her husband...." "Well, if you think it necessary," she returned resignedly. At need she might find the means to avoid anything like a real intimacy; and, after all, there would be a certain satisfaction in finally seeing, with her own eyes, Clytie Summers as somebody's actual wife. Last to arrive were the Joyces. Medora wore the wedding-gown that had astonished the country neighbours for ten miles around, and Abner was in the customary evening dress. "A bachelor and a genius," Medora had declared, "may enjoy some latitude, but a married man must consider his wife." Abner had dutifully considered. He who considers is like him who hesitates--lost. "There will be wine," said Medora. "Drink it. There may be toasts. Be ready to respond." Abner could think on his feet--speech would not fail. And his fortnight with the Whylands had reconciled him to more things than wine. "Let me be proud of you," said Medora. Abner shook to his centre. Had he married a Delilah and a Beatrice in one? "And don't let's talk any more about our book than they talk of theirs," she counselled to end with.