that at present engaged, so certain was intelligent London that in going
to hear Arthur Meadows on the most admired--or the most
detested--personalities of the day, they at least ran no risk of
wishy-washy panegyric, or a dull caution. Meadows had proved himself
daring both in compliment and attack; nothing could be sharper than his
thrusts, or more Olympian than his homage. There were those indeed who
talked of "airs" and "mannerisms," but their faint voices were lost in
the general shouting.

"Wonderful!" said Doris, at last, looking up from the last of these
epistles. "I really didn't know, Arthur, you were such a great man."

Her eyes rested on him with a fond but rather puzzled expression.

"Well, of course, dear, you've always seen the seamy side of me," said
Meadows, with the slightest change of tone and a laugh. "Perhaps now
you'll believe me when I say that I'm not always lazy when I seem
so--that a man must have time to think, and smoke, and dawdle, if he's
to write anything decent, and can't always rush at the first job that
offers. When you thought I was idling--I wasn't! I was gathering up
impressions. Then came an attractive piece of work--one that suited
me--and I rose to it. There, you see!"

He threw back his Jovian head, with a look at his wife, half combative,
half merry.

Doris's forehead puckered a little.

"Well, thank Heaven that it _has_ turned out well!" she said, with a
deep breath. "Where we should have been if it hadn't I'm sure I don't