back to Kensington (he was, to be precise, passing the Albert Memorial), it rose again as quietly, and this time the smile which it provoked was definitely a friendly one. Familiarity with this idea had bred in the Archdeacon not contempt but affection. He was beginning, you perceive, to toy with it. This time he didn't dismiss it. He thought, "And why not?"
He was lost.
From that moment he had no peace. I don't propose to detail his struggles. They would not repay our examination. Everybody has gone through something of the kind. I don't mean that everybody has written a novel. That, of course, would not be quite true. But everybody has at least thought of doing it, and nearly everybody has tried. Of those who have tried, only about ten per cent. have failed, while of the ninety per cent. who have
