She shook her head softly.

“Revision” she said, “never affects style.  The swing of a good story is never so good as in the first writing of it.  Ah, here is Mr. Anderson.”

An elderly gentleman was ushered in to them.  He carried his hat with him, and had the appearance of a man in a hurry.  He greeted Emily with courtesy, Douglas with interest.

“I’ve looked in for a moment,” he said; “carriage waiting at the door—­got to speak at the Institute of Journalists and catch the midnight train home.  So this is Mr. Jesson, eh?”

Douglas admitted the fact, and the newcomer eyed him keenly.

“Will you write me a London letter of a thousand words three times a week for ten pounds?” he asked abruptly.

“Certainly, if you think I can send you what you want,” Douglas answered promptly.

“The Countess answers for it that you can.  I’ve seen your work in the Courier.  It’s exactly what I wish for—­pithy, to the point, crisp and interesting.  Never be beguiled into a long sentence, abjure politics as much as possible, and read other London letters that you may learn what to avoid.  I can’t give you better advice than this.”

“I’ll try,” Douglas declared, laughing.

The elderly gentleman picked up his hat, declined coffee vigorously, and liqueurs scornfully.

“Ten pounds a week,” he said, “three months notice either side, and no work of the same sort for any other country paper.  I’ll be frank with you.  I shall sell the letters out, and make a profit on ’em.  A dozen newspapers’ll take them.  Good-night.  Address here.”

He laid down a card and disappeared.  Douglas looked at his companion and laughed.  They sat upon a lounge placed back between the fountain and the palms, and drank their coffee.  Douglas lit a cigarette.

“Why, I’m a rich man,” he exclaimed.  “I suppose it’s all right.”

“Oh, it’s quite genuine,” she said, “but you ought to have asked more money.  Mr. Anderson is very odd, but he’s honest and liberal, and a great friend of mine.

“Ten pounds seemed such wealth,” he said, with a sudden thought that his days in a garret were over when he chose.

“It is very little,” she repeated.  “I could have got you more.  Still there are some other things I have in view for you.”

A sudden wave of gratitude made him ashamed that he had ever for a moment listened to Drexley the lunatic, and Rice, miserable croaker.  He held out his hand to her.

“I owe you so much,” he said.  “I shall never be half grateful enough.”

She held his fingers—­surely no woman’s hand was ever so delicately shaped, so soft, so electric.  His fingers remained, only now they enclosed hers.

“I do not want any word of thanks from you,” she said.  “Only I should like you to remember that I have tried to do what little I could for you.”