"And that's what I dropped in to see about. I told her mother all you said about me being sure to be well-off some day, and about the book being published soon, and her brother, that's Pippa's uncle----" "What name did you say?" "Pippa. That's her name. Philippa it is really; she was named after the daughter of a lady her mother nursed when she was sick, and so she named her after this lady's daughter. But she couldn't say it plain, you see, so she always called herself Pippa for short, and so they all call her that still. I suppose you never heard it before--I never did." "It is a strange name--for a cashier," said Mr. Delafield. "Yes, indeed. Well, her Uncle Joseph is a stenographer in a newspaper office, and he knows a good deal about this sort of thing, and he says not to publish with the D----s. He says they're a poky firm and don't advertise enough. If I gave the book to the L----s they'd push it along, he says. He says they'd make anything sell. The D----s wouldn't put up posters on bill-boards, now, would they?" "I suppose not," said Delafield. He felt unaccountably tired. He had not realised till now how much his mind had been filled with Henry West and his poetry, how much he had anticipated introducing his rare young protegé. "And of course I want to do the best for myself----" "Of course, beyond a doubt." How could a person change so in two weeks? What had turned that sensitive dreamer into this bustling young lover? "You see, sir, I've got a good many things to consider," he smiled happily. "Certainly, West, I appreciate that. At the same time I doubt if you will do better with anybody than you can with Mr. D----. It may be the L----s wouldn't want your book. It is not what is known as a popular book, you know. Poetry appeals to a limited public, and----" "Oh, well, it's all right. Only I thought you might want to know what Uncle Joseph said, that's all. I must go now," and he turned. "Miss Delafield is still here," said her uncle, coldly. "Oh, good-night," West murmured, and left the room. "Is it really he?" Delafield hazarded, hardly glancing at her. She met his look calmly. "At any rate the book is ready, which is the principal thing, I suppose," she said. He found himself illogically wishing she had resented it more. "It was a mistake," he thought, "she has no feeling for him." Through the weeks that followed they avoided mentioning his name, and each, trusting that the other would forget, thought of him in puzzled silence. When he came to them next, toward the end of May, it seemed for a moment, as he flung himself into a chair and stared moodily at the empty fireplace, that his old self had returned. Thin and shabby, with dark rings under his eyes, he looked like the boy Delafield had warmed and fed that cold March night. But his words undeceived them. "I shall shoot myself if this doesn't stop," he said bitterly. Anne started.