It will be pardoned if I say that Aymer was prouder that day than ever he had been in his life. He went straight to the publisher’s with a glowing heart. The agreement had been that the publisher should have two editions for his trouble and the use of his name; in the third, the author and artist was to share. In point of fact, the publisher had never dreamt of the book reaching even a second edition. Aymer was received coldly. He asked for his share. Impossible—the booksellers had not paid yet—the expense had been enormous—advertising, etc, there would barely be a balance when all was said and done. Aymer lost his temper, as well he might, and was very politely requested to leave the premises. He did so, but hastened at once to his adviser—the clerk who had told him to publish at his own risk. This man, or rather gentleman, said he had expected him for days, and wondered why he had not come. “Wait till one o’clock,” said he, “and I will accompany you.” At one they revisited the offices of the publisher. The upshot was that Aymer was presented with a cheque for fifty pounds, being his own forty pounds, and ten pounds additional. “Now,” said his friend, “you call on my employers—I will mention your name—and offer them a work you have in hand.” Aymer did so, and obtained a commission to write a work for them, to be illustrated by himself, and was presented with a twenty-pound note as earnest-money. Thus in a few hours, from a penniless outcast, he found himself with seventy pounds in his pocket—with a name, and with a prospect of constant and highly remunerative employment. If this continued, and of course it would—not all his disappointments could quench his faith in his destiny—he would marry Violet almost immediately. With this money he could search out, and establish her claim; he would employ her own late employer, Mr Broughton. He was anxious to write to Violet, but he had not tasted food that day yet. He entered a restaurant and treated himself to a really good dinner, with a little of the generous juice of the grape. Towards five o’clock he sat himself down in his old room to write to Violet, and to Mr Broughton. He wrote and wrote and wrote, and still he could not conclude; his heart was full, and he knew that there was a loving pair of eyes which would read every line with delight. First about his book—sending, of course, two copies by the same post—one for Violet, one for Lady Lechester—telling Violet of the excitement it had caused, of the crowd in the street, of the anxiety to learn the author’s name, of the first, second, third edition, and the fourth in the press. Was it to be wondered at that he dilated upon this subject?