landlady's surprise when he presented her with one. Above all, I should
like to bring home to you the eagerness with which he bought and opened
"The Times Literary Supplement" and read his first review:

"'William Trewulliam--The First Phase.' By John Penquarto, 7-1/2 by
5-1/4, 896 pp., Albert Pump. 9s. n."

I have no time to go into these matters, nor have I time in which to give
at length his later Press cuttings, in which there was displayed a
unanimity of opinion that John Penquarto was now in the front rank of
living novelists, one of the limited number whose work really counted. I
must hurry on.

It was a week after the publication of "William Trewulliam," the novel
which had taken all London by storm. In all the drawing-rooms of Mayfair,
in all the clubs of Pall Mall, people were asking each other, "Who is
John Penquarto?" Nobody knew--save one.

Lady Mary knew. It was not the name Penquarto which had told her; it
was--yes, you have guessed--the scene at the beginning of the book,
when William Trewulliam meets the little Anne and shares his last
raspberry-drop with her. Even under this disguise she recognized that
early meeting. She pierced beneath the imagination of the novelist to the
recollection of the man. John Penquarto--of course! Now she remembered
the name.

It had always been a mystery to her friends why Lady Mary had never
married. No girl in Society had been more eagerly courted. It was
whispered that already she had refused more than one Archbishop, three
Newspaper Proprietors and a couple of Dukes. Something, she scarcely knew