What did it matter after that that the ass in charge of the Waterloo
bookstall had never heard of "The Manoeuvres of Arthur," and that my
publishers, whenever I slunk in to ask how it was selling, looked at
me with a sort of grave, paternal pity and said that it had not really
"begun to move?" Anybody can write one of those rotten popular novels
which appeal to the unthinking public, but it takes a man of intellect
and refinement and taste and all that sort of thing to turn out
something that will be approved of by a girl like this.

"I wonder who Jeremy Garnet is," she said. "I've never heard of him
before. I imagine him rather an old young man, probably with an
eyeglass, and conceited. And I should think he didn't know many girls.
At least if he thinks Pamela an ordinary sort of girl. She's a
cr-r-eature," said Phyllis emphatically.

This was a blow to me. I had always looked on Pamela as a well-drawn
character, and a very attractive, kittenish little thing at that. That
scene between her and the curate in the conservatory . . . And when
she talks to Arthur at the meet of the Blankshires . . . I was sorry
she did not like Pamela. Somehow it lowered Pamela in my estimation.

"But I like Arthur," said the girl.

This was better. A good chap, Arthur,--a very complete and thoughtful
study of myself. If she liked Arthur, why, then it followed . . . but
what was the use? I should never get a chance of speaking to her. We
were divided by a great gulf of Aunties and Alberts and meat
sandwiches.