they are not. What a man thinks--really thinks--goes down into him and
grows in silence. What a man writes in books are the thoughts that he
wishes to be thought to think_."

Poor Jephson! he promised so well at one time. But he always had strange
notions.




CHAPTER I


When, on returning home one evening, after a pipe party at my friend
Jephson's, I informed my wife that I was going to write a novel, she
expressed herself as pleased with the idea. She said she had often
wondered I had never thought of doing so before. "Look," she added, "how
silly all the novels are nowadays; I'm sure you could write one."
(Ethelbertha intended to be complimentary, I am convinced; but there is a
looseness about her mode of expression which, at times, renders her
meaning obscure.)

When, however, I told her that my friend Jephson was going to collaborate
with me, she remarked, "Oh," in a doubtful tone; and when I further went
on to explain to her that Selkirk Brown and Derrick MacShaughnassy were
also going to assist, she replied, "Oh," in a tone which contained no
trace of doubtfulness whatever, and from which it was clear that her
interest in the matter, as a practical scheme, had entirely evaporated.

I fancy that the fact of my three collaborators being all bachelors