alpaca, from Kilburn, who for a couple of years had come to me
regularly for my illustrations and with whom I was still--perhaps
ignobly--satisfied. I frankly explained to my visitors how the
case stood, but they had taken more precautions than I supposed.
They had reasoned out their opportunity, for Claude Rivet had told
them of the projected edition de luxe of one of the writers of our
day--the rarest of the novelists--who, long neglected by the
multitudinous vulgar, and dearly prized by the attentive (need I
mention Philip Vincent?) had had the happy fortune of seeing, late
in life, the dawn and then the full light of a higher criticism; an
estimate in which on the part of the public there was something
really of expiation. The edition preparing, planned by a publisher
of taste, was practically an act of high reparation; the woodcuts
with which it was to be enriched were the homage of English art to
one of the most independent representatives of English letters.
Major and Mrs. Monarch confessed to me they had hoped I might be
able to work THEM into my branch of the enterprise. They knew I
was to do the first of the books, Rutland Ramsay, but I had to make
clear to them that my participation in the rest of the affair--this
first book was to be a test--must depend on the satisfaction I
should give. If this should be limited my employers would drop me
with scarce common forms. It was therefore a crisis for me, and
naturally I was making special preparations, looking about for new
people, should they be necessary, and securing the best types. I
admitted however that I should like to settle down to two or three
good models who would do for everything.

"Should we have often to--a--put on special clothes?" Mrs. Monarch
timidly demanded.