He did not look up exactly at the instant of my entering, but when he did look up, when he saw me, he stared for an instant, and then sprang from his chair as though magically startled into activity.  His age was about thirty, and he had large, dark eyes, and a slight, dark moustache, and his face generally was interesting; he wore a dark gray suit.  I was nervous, but he was even more nervous; yet in the moment of looking up he had not seemed nervous.  He could not do enough, apparently, to make me feel at ease, and to show his appreciation of me and my work.  He spoke enthusiastically of The Jest, begging me neither to suppress it nor to alter it.  And, without the least suggestion from me, he offered me a considerable sum of money in advance of royalties.  At that time I scarcely knew what royalties were.  But although my ignorance of business was complete, I guessed that this man was behaving in a manner highly unusual among publishers.  He was also patently contradicting the tenor of his firm’s letter to me.  I thanked him, and said I should like, at any rate, to glance through the manuscript.

‘Don’t alter it, Miss Peel, I beg,’ he said.  ’It is “young,” I know; but it ought to be.  I remember my wife said—­my wife reads many of our manuscripts—­by the way—­’ He went to a door, opened it, and called out, ‘Mary!’

A tall and slim woman, extremely elegant, appeared in reply to this appeal.  Her hair was gray above the ears, and I judged that she was four or five years older than the man.  She had a kind, thin face, with shining gray eyes, and she was wearing a hat.

’Mary, this is Miss Peel, the author of The Jest—­you remember.  Miss Peel, my wife.’

The woman welcomed me with quick, sincere gestures.  Her smile was very pleasant, and yet a sad smile.  The husband also had an air of quiet, restrained, cheerful sadness.

‘My wife is frequently here in the afternoon like this,’ said the principal.

‘Yes,’ she laughed; ’it’s quite a family affair, and I’m almost on the staff.  I distinctly remember your manuscript, Miss Peel, and how very clever and amusing it was.’

Her praise was spontaneous and cordial, but it was a different thing from the praise of her husband.  He obviously noticed the difference.

‘I was just saying to Miss Peel—­’ he began, with increased nervousness.

‘Pardon me,’ I interrupted.  ’But am I speaking to Mr. Oakley or Mr. Dalbiac?’

‘To neither,’ said he.  ’My name is Ispenlove, and I am the nephew of the late Mr. Dalbiac.  Mr. Oakley died thirty years ago.  I have no partner.’

‘You expected to see a very old gentleman, no doubt,’ Mrs. Ispenlove remarked.

‘Yes,’ I smiled.

‘People often do.  And Frank is so very young.  You live in London?’

‘No,’ I said; ‘I have just come up.’

‘To stay?’

‘To stay.’

‘Alone?’