gift, this quick, vivacious power of narrative, this genius--for it was
something like it--for literary portraiture? And now at last the
stimulus had come--and the opportunity with it. Could she ever forget
the anxiety of the first lecture--the difficulty she had had in making
him finish it--his careless, unbusiness-like management of the whole
affair? But then had come the burst of praise and popularity; and
Arthur was a new man. No difficulty--or scarcely--in getting him to work
since then! Applause, so new and intoxicating, had lured him on, as she
had been wont to lure the black pony of her childhood with a handful of
sugar. Yes, her Arthur was a genius; she had always known it. And
something of a child too--lazy, wilful, and sensuous--that, too, she had
known for some time. And she loved him with all her heart.

"But I won't have him spoilt by those fine ladies!" she said to herself,
with frowning clear-sightedness. "They make a perfect fool of him. Now,
then, I'd better write to Lady Dunstable. Of course she ought to have
written to me!"

So she sat down and wrote:

Dear Lady Dunstable,--We have much pleasure in accepting your kind
invitation, and I will let you know our train later. I have no maid,
so--

But at this point Mrs. Meadows, struck by a sudden idea, threw down her
pen.

"Heavens!--suppose I took Jane? Somebody told me the other day that
nobody got any attention at Crosby Ledgers without a maid. And it might
bribe Jane into staying. I should feel a horrid snob--but it would be