translation from the last _Boletin Extraordinario_, sprang up, shouting,
"Now for Mrs. P.'s," and looked at my watch. It was half past one![G] I
thought of course it had stopped,--no; and my last manuscript page was
numbered twenty-eight! Had I been writing there five hours? Yes!

Reader, when you are an editor, with a continent's explosions to
describe, you will understand how one may be unconscious of the passage
of time.

I walked home, sad at heart. There was no light in all Mr. Wentworth's
house; there was none in any of Mrs. Pollexfen's windows;[H] and the
last carriage of her last relation had left her door. I stumbled up
stairs in the dark, and threw myself on my bed. What should I say, what
could I say, to Julia? Thus pondering, I fell asleep.

If I were writing a novel, I should say that, at a late hour the next
day, I listlessly drew aside the azure curtains of my couch, and
languidly rang a silver bell which stood on my dressing-table, and
received from a page dressed in an Oriental costume the notes and
letters which had been left for me since morning, and the newspapers of
the day.

I am not writing a novel.

The next morning, about ten o'clock, I arose and went down to
breakfast. As I sat at the littered table which every one else had left,
dreading to attack my cold coffee and toast, I caught sight of the
morning papers, and received some little consolation from them. There
was the Argus with its three columns and a half of "Important from South
America," while none of the other papers had a square of any