What did it matter after that that the ass in charge of the Waterloo bookstall had never heard of “The Manoeuvres of Arthur,” and that my publishers, whenever I slunk in to ask how it was selling, looked at me with a sort of grave, paternal pity and said that it had not really “begun to move?” Anybody can write one of those rotten popular novels which appeal to the unthinking public, but it takes a man of intellect and refinement and taste and all that sort of thing to turn out something that will be approved of by a girl like this.

“I wonder who Jeremy Garnet is,” she said.  “I’ve never heard of him before.  I imagine him rather an old young man, probably with an eyeglass, and conceited.  And I should think he didn’t know many girls.  At least if he thinks Pamela an ordinary sort of girl.  She’s a cr-r-eature,” said Phyllis emphatically.

This was a blow to me.  I had always looked on Pamela as a well-drawn character, and a very attractive, kittenish little thing at that.  That scene between her and the curate in the conservatory . . .  And when she talks to Arthur at the meet of the Blankshires . . .  I was sorry she did not like Pamela.  Somehow it lowered Pamela in my estimation.

“But I like Arthur,” said the girl.

This was better.  A good chap, Arthur,—­a very complete and thoughtful study of myself.  If she liked Arthur, why, then it followed . . . but what was the use?  I should never get a chance of speaking to her.  We were divided by a great gulf of Aunties and Alberts and meat sandwiches.

The train was beginning to slow down.  Signs of returning animation began to be noticeable among the sleepers.  Aunty’s eyes opened, stared vacantly round, closed, and reopened.  The niece woke, and started instantly to attack a sausage roll.  Albert and Ukridge slumbered on.

A whistle from the engine, and the train drew up at a station.  Looking out, I saw that it was Yeovil.  There was a general exodus.  Aunty became instantly a thing of dash and electricity, collected parcels, shook Albert, replied to his thrusts with repartee, and finally heading a stampede out of the door.

The Irishman and his daughter also rose, and got out.  I watched them leave stoically.  It would have been too much to expect that they should be going any further.

“Where are we?” said Ukridge sleepily.  “Yeovil?  Not far now.  I tell you what it is, old horse, I could do with a drink.”

With that remark he closed his eyes again, and returned to his slumbers.  And, as he did so, my eye, roving discontentedly over the carriage, was caught by something lying in the far corner.  It was “The Manoeuvres of Arthur.”  The girl had left it behind.

I suppose what follows shows the vanity that obsesses young authors.  It did not even present itself to me as a tenable theory that the book might have been left behind on purpose, as being of no further use to the owner.  It only occurred to me that, if I did not act swiftly, the poor girl would suffer a loss beside which the loss of a purse or vanity-case were trivial.