Sullivan could hardly get him from his room.

Finding a young publisher prepared to undertake half the risk, on the
ground, unexpressed, of the author's proximity to the judgment-seat,
Walter, too experienced to look for any gain, yet hoped to clear his
expenses, and became liable for much more than he possessed.

He had one little note from Lufa, concerning a point in rhythm which
perplexed her. She had a good ear, and was conscientious in her
mechanics. There was not a cockney-rhyme from beginning to end of her
poem, which is more than the uninitiated will give its weight to. But
she understood nothing of the broken music which a master of verse will
turn to such high service. There are lines in Milton which Walter, who
knew far more than she, could not read until long after, when Dante
taught him how.

In the month of December came another note from Lady Lufa, inviting him
to spend a week with them after Christmas.

"Perhaps then we may have yet a ride together," added a postscript.

"What does she mean?" thought Walter, a pale fear at his heart. "She
can not mean our last ride!"

One conclusion he came to--that he must tell her plainly he loved her.
The thing was only right, though of course ridiculous in the eyes of
worldly people, said the far from unworldly poet. True, she was the
daughter of an earl, and he the son of a farmer; and those who called
the land their own looked down upon those who tilled it! But a banker,
or a brewer, or the son of a contractor who had wielded the spade, might