Her expression lent solemnity to the act: Mrs. Linyard had a limited
but distinctive set of expressions, and she now looked as she did
when the President of the University came to dine.

"You didn't tell me of this, Samuel," she said in a slightly
tremulous voice.

"Tell you of what?" returned the Professor, reddening to the margin
of his baldness.

"That you had published a book--I might never have heard of it if
Mrs. Pease hadn't brought me the paper."

Her husband rubbed his eye-glasses with a groan. "Oh, you would have
heard of it," he said gloomily.

Mrs. Linyard stared. "Did you wish to keep it from me, Samuel?" And
as he made no answer, she added with irresistible pride: "Perhaps
you don't know what beautiful things have been said about it."

He took the paper with a reluctant hand. "Has Pease been saying
beautiful things about it?"

"The Professor? Mrs. Pease didn't say he had mentioned it."

The author heaved a sigh of relief. His book, as Harviss had
prophesied, had caught the autumn market: had caught and captured
it. The publisher had conducted the campaign like an experienced
strategist. He had completely surrounded the enemy. Every newspaper,
every periodical, held in ambush an advertisement of "The Vital