Alwyn winced at the title,—­what a host of strange memories it recalled!

“I have seen nothing,” he replied hurriedly, “I have made it a point to look at no papers, lest I should chance on my own name coupled, as it has been before, with the languid abuse common to criticism in this country.  Not that I should have cared,—­now! ...” and a slight smile played on his lips..  “In fact I have ceased to care.  Moreover, as I know modern success in literature is chiefly commanded by the praise of a ‘clique,’ or the services of ‘log-rollers,’ and as I am not included in any of the journalistic rings, I have neither hoped nor expected any particular favor or recognition from the public.”

“Then,” said Villiers excitedly, seizing him by the hand, “let me be the first to congratulate you!  It is often the way that when we no longer specially crave a thing, that thing is suddenly thrust upon us whether we will or no,—­and so it has happened in your case.  Learn, therefore, my dear fellow, that your poem, which you sent to me from Tiflis, and which was published under my supervision about four months ago, has already run through six editions, and is now in its seventh.  Seven editions of a poem,—–­a poem, mark you!—­in four months, isn’t bad, . . moreover, the demand continues, and the long and the short of it is, that your name is actually at the present moment the most celebrated in all London, —­in fact, you are very generally acknowledged the greatest poet of the day!  And,” continued Villiers, wringing his friend’s hand with uncommon fervor..  “I say, God bless you, old boy!  If ever a man deserved success, you do!  ‘Nourhalma’ is magnificent!—­such a genius as yours will raise the literature of the age to a higher standard than it has known since the death of Adonais [Footnote:  Keats.] You can’t imagine how sincerely I rejoice at your triumph!”

Alwyn was silent,—­he returned his companion’s cordial hand-pressure almost unconsciously.  He stood, leaning against the mantelpiece, and looking gravely down into the fire.  His first emotion was one of repugnance,—­of rejection, . . what did he need of this will-o’-the-wisp called Fame, dancing again across his path,—­this transitory torch of world-approval!  Fame in London! ...  What was it, what could it be, compared to the brilliancy of the fame he had once enjoyed as Laureate of Al-Kyris!  As this thought passed across his mind, he gave a quick interrogative glance at Villiers, who was observing him with much wondering intentness, and his handsome face lighted with sudden laughter.

“Dear old boy!” he said, with a very tender inflection in his mellow, mirthful voice—­“You are the best of good fellows, and I thank you heartily for your news, which, if it seems satisfactory to you, ought certainly to be satisfactory to me!  But tell me frankly, if I am as famous as you say, how did I become so? ... how was it worked up?”