Georges Carpentier and the Reverend What's-his-name."

One morning in December Augustus sat in his writing-room, at work on the
third chapter of his eighth novel. He had described at some length, for
the benefit of those who could not imagine it, what a rectory garden
looks like in July; he was now engaged in describing at greater length
the feelings of a young girl, daughter of a long line of rectors and
archdeacons, when she discovers for the first time that the postman is
attractive.

"Their eyes met, for a brief moment, as he handed her two circulars and
the fat wrapper-bound bulk of the _East Essex News_. Their eyes met, for
the merest fraction of a second, yet nothing could ever be quite the same
again. Cost what it might she felt that she must speak, must break the
intolerable, unreal silence that had fallen on them. 'How is your
mother's rheumatism?' she said."

The author's labours were cut short by the sudden intrusion of a
maidservant.

"A gentleman to see you, sir," said the maid, handing a card with the
name Caiaphas Dwelf inscribed on it; "says it's important."

Mellowkent hesitated and yielded; the importance of the visitor's mission
was probably illusory, but he had never met any one with the name
Caiaphas before. It would be at least a new experience.

Mr. Dwelf was a man of indefinite age; his high, narrow forehead, cold
grey eyes, and determined manner bespoke an unflinching purpose. He had
a large book under his arm, and there seemed every probability that he