“But they are really very clever,” said she. “Arthur Galmyn was a poet, but I saw that he had not patience enough to wait for fame to come to him.” “Why couldn’t he buy a practice in a populous suburban district?” asked Lord Lullworth. “If a chap can’t succeed as a specialist in town he should set up as a general practitioner in the suburbs or in the provinces.” “I suppose a poet is a sort of literary specialist,” said Amber. “Never mind,--he is all right now: he is making money on the Stock Exchange.” “You made him go on the Stock Exchange?” “Oh, yes; we talked it over together. And I got Guy Overton to join the Technical School of Literature, and I believe he is improved by doing so already.” “And you got the other chap to set up the school, I suppose?” “It was an old idea of mine. When people have a Conservatoire of Music, and the Academy School of Painting, why should the art of Literary Composition be allowed to struggle on as best it can without instruction or advice?” “That’s just what I should like to know. And the other bounder--I mean the chap who talked that about bulldogs and the cats and things--a bit of a rotter he was, wasn’t he? Did you advise him in any direction? I didn’t quite make out what his line was.” “Yes, it was I who suggested to him the splendid possibilities there were in the way of advertising things. I showed him in what a haphazard way people advertised just now, and persuaded him that there was money in any systematic scheme of advertising, and he has gone far ahead of anything I ever imagined to be possible.” “I should think he has. And what are they up to, the lot of them, can you guess, Miss Severn?” “Up to?--what are they up to? Why, haven’t I just explained that each of them is making a profession----” “Oh, yes; but do you fancy that they’re doing it for love of the profession or for--for--any other reason?” “I don’t quite see what you mean, Lord Lullworth.” “It’s a bit rough to be frank with a girl; and it’s rarely that a chap has to say just what he means, but there are times...” He spoke apologetically and paused, allowing his smile to rest upon her for a moment. It was the smile of a man who hopes he hasn’t gone too far, and trusts to get out of an untenable position by the aid of a temporising smile. She returned his smile quite pleasantly. She knew that the sentences over the utterance of which men hesitate are invariably the most interesting that they have to speak. “What is it?” she asked. “Everybody speaks frankly to me: they don’t treat me as they do other girls, you know.” “It’s a dangerous experiment talking frankly to a girl,” said he. “But if it comes to that, it’s not so dangerous an experiment as a girl talking frankly to a man--leading him to do things that he hasn’t a mind to do--may be that he hates doing.” “I was born in an atmosphere of experiments,” said she. “I delight in having dealings with new forces, and making out their respective coefficients of energy.”