time he offered to read me his novel, instead of as usual waiting
for me to ask to hear it. I can see him now, fetching the untidy
portfolio and turning over the pages, adroitly enough, as though
anxious to show how immaterial was the loss of a left arm. That
night I listened to the first half of the third volume of 'Lynwood's
Heritage,' and couldn't help reflecting that its author seemed to
thrive on misery; and yet how I grudged him to this deadly-lively
place, and this monotonous, cooped-up life.

"How do you manage to write one-handed?" I asked.

And he sat down to his desk, put a letter-weight on the left-hand
corner of the sheet of foolscap, and wrote that comical first
paragraph of the eighth chapter over which we have all laughed. I
suppose few readers guessed the author's state of mind when he wrote
it. I looked over his shoulder to see what he had written, and
couldn't help laughing aloud--I verily believe that it was his way
of turning off attention from his arm, and leading me safely from
the region of awkward questions.

"By-the-by," I exclaimed, "your writing of garden-parties reminds
me. I went to one at Campden Hill the other day, and had the good
fortune to meet Miss Freda Merrifield."

How his face lighted up, poor fellow, and what a flood of questions
he poured out. "She looked very well and very pretty," I replied.
"I played two sets of tennis with her. She asked after you directly
she saw me, seeming to think that we always hunted in couples. I
told her you were living here, taking care of an invalid father; but
just then up came the others to arrange the game. She and I got the