THE AUTHOR OF "TRIXIE"
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himself doing such a thing. That is why he smiled a moment ago behind the Church Times, just as anyone else would have smiled at the idea of Archdeacon Roach coming out as a fictioneer.
(3)
"I wonder," he thought, "if I have a novel in me," and smiled and slowly broke off the ash of his Corona against the edge of the ash-tray and slowly sipped from his glass of very old cognac. "I wonder," he thought, and smiled again. But this time the smile was a trifle fatuous. The idea now pleased rather than amused him. He dismissed it (for old Mr. Lucas-Gore had started out upon an anecdote concerning Henry James, the point of which escaped him just as he got there), and it sank quietly into his subconscious mind. About an hour later, while he strolled
