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“Here, Morrison,” he said to his secretary, later in the morning: “just answer this, will you? The usual thing–thanks and most deeply grateful, y’know.”

Next day the following was included in Dunstable’s correspondence:

Mr. Montagu Watson presents his compliments to Mr. P. A. Dunstable, and begs to thank him for all the kind things he says about his work in his letter of the 18th inst., for which he is deeply grateful.

“Foiled!” said Dunstable, and went off to Seymour’s to see his friend Linton.

“Got any notepaper?” he asked.

“Heaps,” said Linton. “Why? Want some?”

“Then get out a piece. I want to dictate a letter.”

Linton stared.

“What’s up? Hurt your hand?”

Dunstable explained.

“Day collects autographs, you know, and he wants Montagu Watson’s badly. Pining away, and all that sort of thing. Won’t smile until he gets it. I had a shot at it yesterday, and got this.”

Linton inspected the document.

“So I can’t send up another myself, you see.”

“Why worry?”

“Oh, I’d like to put Day one up. He’s not been bad this term. Come on.”

“All right. Let her rip.”

Dunstable let her rip.

Dear Sir,–I cannot refrain from writing to tell you what an inestimable comfort your novels have been to me during years of sore tribulation and distress—-

“Look here,” interrupted Linton with decision at this point. “If you think I’m going to shove my name at the end of this rot, you’re making the mistake of a lifetime.”

“Of course not. You’re a widow who has lost two sons in South Africa. We’ll think of a good name afterwards. Ready?

“Ever since my darling Charles Herbert and Percy Lionel were taken from me in that dreadful war, I have turned for consolation to the pages of ‘The Soul of Anthony Carrington’ and—-”

“What, another?” asked Linton.

“There’s one called ‘Pancakes.'”

“Sure? Sounds rummy.”

“That’s all right. You have to get a queer title nowadays if you want to sell a book.”

“Go on, then. Jam it down.”

“–and ‘Pancakes.’ I hate to bother you, but if you could send me your autograph I should be more grateful than words can say. Yours admiringly.”

“What’s a good name? How would Dorothy Maynard do?”

“You want something more aristocratic. What price Hilda Foulke-Ponsonby?”

Dunstable made no objection, and Linton signed the letter with a flourish.

They installed Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby at Spiking’s in the High Street. It was not a very likely address for a lady whose blood was presumably of the bluest, but they could think of none except that obliging stationer who would take in letters for them.

There was a letter for Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby next day. Whatever his other defects as a correspondent, Mr. Watson was at least prompt with his responses.

Mr. Montagu Watson presented his compliments, and was deeply grateful for all the kind things Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby had said about his work in her letter of the 19th inst. He was, however, afraid that he scarcely deserved them. Her opportunities of deriving consolation from “The Soul of Anthony Carrington” had been limited by the fact that that book had only been published ten days before: while, as for “Pancakes,” to which she had referred in such flattering terms, he feared that another author must have the credit of any refreshment her bereaved spirit might have extracted from that volume, for he had written no work of such a name. His own “Pan Wakes” would, he hoped, administer an equal quantity of balm.

Mr. Secretary Morrison had slept badly on the night before he wrote this letter, and had expended some venom upon its composition.

“Sold again!” said Dunstable.

“You’d better chuck it now. It’s no good,” said Linton.

“I’ll have another shot. Then I’ll try and think of something else.”

Two days later Mr. Morrison replied to Mr. Edgar Habbesham-Morley, of 3a, Green Street, Park Lane, to the effect that Mr. Montagu Watson was deeply grateful for all the kind things, etc.—-

3a, Green Street was Dunstable’s home address.

At this juncture the Watson-Dunstable correspondence ceases, and the relations become more personal.