"How many more will you accept?"

"Two more at the outside, making six in all. The public is like a greedy child, it must be stopped before it makes itself sick.

Nausea leaves a lasting distaste for that which preceded it."

The Count nodded.

"And this worldly wisdom--is it the editor or the man who speaks?"

"The editor. The editor is a man who lives by saying 'No.'"

"And you will say 'No' to any more from this--writer's pen?"

"To any more about Spain I most certainly shall."

The Count reflected. What little light the London day afforded fell full upon his long narrow face, upon the pointed Velasquez chin, the receding iron-grey hair brushed straight back.

"And the fact that the writer is supporting herself and a worn-out old uncle by her pen will make no difference?"

John Craik hesitated for a moment.

"Not the least," he then said. "You seem to know the writer."

"I do, and I am interested in her."

"A lady?" John Craik was dotting his i's with the contemplativeness of artistic finish.

"Essentially so."

"And poor?"

"Yes, and proud as--"

"A Spaniard," suggested John Craik.

"If you will. It is a vice which has almost become a virtue in these democratic days."

John Craik looked up.

"I will do what I can, Lloseta," he said. "But she is not a great writer, and will never become one."

"I know that. Some day she will become a great lady, or I know nothing of them."

Craik was still busy touching up his ma.n.u.script.

"I have never seen her," he said. "But the impression I received from her ma.n.u.scripts is that she is a girl who has lived a simple life among a simple people. She has seen a great deal of nature, out-of-door nature, which is pure, and cannot be too deeply studied.

She has seen very little of human nature, which is not so pure as it might be. That is her chief charm of style, a high-minded purity.

She does not describe the gutter and think she is writing of the street. By the way, I am expecting her here" (he paused, and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece) "in exactly two minutes."

The Count rose quickly and took his hat. As he extended his hand to say "Good-bye" there was a rap at the door. The discreet youth who told John Craik's falsehoods for him came in and handed his master a slip of paper with a name written thereon.

Craik read the inscription, crumpled up the paper, and threw it into the waste-paper basket.

"In one minute," he said, and the liar withdrew.

Cipriani de Lloseta, with a quiet deliberation which was sometimes almost dramatic, stooped over the paper basket and recovered the crumpled slip of paper. He did not unfold it, but held it out, crushed up in his closed fist.

"Miss Eve Challoner," he said.

John Craik nodded.

De Lloseta laughed and threw the paper into the fire.

"I must not be seen. Where do you propose to put me?"

"Go upstairs instead of down," replied John Craik, as if he had been asked the same question before. "Wait on the next landing until you hear this door close; you may then escape in safety."

"Thanks--good-bye."

"Good-bye."

When Eve entered the room, John Craik was writing. He rose with a bow savouring of a politer age than ours, and held out his hand.

"At last," he said, "I have prevailed upon you to come and see me.

Will you sit down? The chair is shabby, but great men and women have sat in it."

He spoke pleasantly, with his twisted laugh, and when Eve was seated he sat slowly, carefully down again. He was thinking not so much of what he was saying as of his hearer. He saw that Eve was undeniably beautiful--the man saw that. The novelist saw that she was probably interesting. As he had just stated, great women had sat in the same chair, and it was John Craik's impulse to save Eve from that same greatness. He had, since a brilliant youth at Oxford, been steeped, as it were, in literature. He had known all the great men and women, and he held strong views of his own. These were probably erroneous--many women will think so--but he held to them. They were based on experience, which is not always the case with views expressed in print and elsewhere. John Craik held that greatness is not good for women. That it is not for their own happiness, he knew. That it is not for the happiness of those around them, he keenly suspected. Some of Eve's celebrated predecessors in that chair had not quite understood John Craik. All thought that he was not sufficiently impressed--not, that is, so impressed by them as they were themselves when they reflected upon their own renown.

He looked at Eve quickly, rubbing his hands together.

"May I, as an old man, ask some impertinent questions?" he inquired, with a cheerfulness which sat strangely on the wan face.

"Yes."

"Why do you write?" he said. "Take time; answer me after reflection."

Eve reflected while the great editor stared into the fire.

"To make money," she answered at last.

He looked up, and saw that she was answering in simple good faith.

"That is right."

He did not tell her that he was sick and tired of the jargon of art for art's sake, literature for literature's sake. He did not tell that--practical man of the world that he was--he had no faith in literary art; that he believed the power of writing to be a gift and nothing else; that the chief art in literature is that which is unconscious of itself.

"Do you feel within yourself the makings of a great author?"

Eve laughed, a sudden girlish laugh, which made John Craik reduce his estimate of her age by five years.