pitiful to tell of all the little intensifications, shade by shade, of the conflict of their individualities.  They fell out, dear lady! they came to conflict of words.  The stress of perpetual worry was upon them, of dwindling funds and the anxious search for work that would not come.  And on Ethel lay long, vacant, lonely hours in dull surroundings.  Differences arose from the most indifferent things; one night Lewisham lay awake in unfathomable amazement because she had convinced him she did not care a rap for the Welfare of Humanity, and deemed his Socialism a fancy and an indiscretion.  And one Sunday afternoon they started for a walk under the pleasantest auspices, and returned flushed and angry, satire and retort flying free—­on the score of the social conventions in Ethel’s novelettes.  For some inexplicable reason Lewisham saw fit to hate her novelettes very bitterly.  These encounters indeed were mere skirmishes for the most part, and the silences and embarrassments that followed ended sooner or later in a “making up,” tacit or definite, though once or twice this making up only re-opened the healing wound.  And always each skirmish left its scar, effaced from yet another line of their lives the lingering tints of romantic colour.

There came no work, no added income for either of them, saving two trifles, for five long months.  Once Lewisham won twelve shillings in the prize competition of a penny weekly, and three times came infinitesimal portions of typewriting from a poet who had apparently seen the Athenaeum advertisement.  His name was Edwin Peak Baynes and his handwriting was sprawling and unformed.  He sent her several short lyrics on scraps of paper with instructions that he desired “three copies of each written beautifully in different styles” and “not fastened with metal fasteners but with silk thread of an appropriate colour.”  Both of our young people were greatly exercised by these instructions.  One fragment was called “Bird Song,” one “Cloud Shadows,” and one “Eryngium,” but Lewisham thought they might be spoken of collectively as Bosh.  By way of payment, this poet sent, in contravention of the postal regulations, half a sovereign stuck into a card, asking her to keep the balance against future occasions.  In a little while, greatly altered copies of these lyrics were returned by the poet in person, with this enigmatical instruction written across the cover of each:  “This style I like, only if possible more so.”

Lewisham was out, but Ethel opened the door, so this indorsement was unnecessary, “He’s really only a boy,” said Ethel, describing the interview to Lewisham, who was curious.  They both felt that the youthfulness of Edwin Peak Baynes detracted something from the reality of this employment.