his pulses. He drank wine again, conscious only of a subtle and
quickening happiness, a delicious sense of full and musical life.

"You have given me a wonderful idea of your story," she murmured.
"Nothing has charmed me so much for a long while. Now the only thing
which I am curious about is the style."

"The style," he repeated. "I don't think I have ever thought of that."

"And yet," she said, "you must have modified your usual style. Your
journalistic work, I think, is wonderful--strong, full of life and
colour, lurid, biting, rivetting. Yet I doubt whether one could write a
novel like that."

"You can scarcely expect a hack journalist," he said, with a smile, "to
write with the elegance of a Walter Pater. Yet of course I have taken
pains--and there is a good deal of revision to be done."

She shook her head softly.

"Revision" she said, "never affects style. The swing of a good story is
never so good as in the first writing of it. Ah, here is Mr.
Anderson."

An elderly gentleman was ushered in to them. He carried his hat with
him, and had the appearance of a man in a hurry. He greeted Emily with
courtesy, Douglas with interest.

"I've looked in for a moment," he said; "carriage waiting at the
door--got to speak at the Institute of Journalists and catch the