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As Betton spoke, he saw a tinge of red on Vyse’s thin cheek, and his own reflected it in a richer glow of shame. “I mean–I mean–” he stammered helplessly.

“No, I haven’t,” said Vyse; “but it will be awfully jolly finding out.”

There was a pause, groping and desperate on Betton’s part, sardonically calm on his visitor’s.

“You–you’ve given up writing altogether?” Betton continued.

“Yes; we’ve changed places, as it were.” Vyse paused. “But about these letters–you dictate the answers?”

“Lord, no! That’s the reason why I said I wanted somebody–er–well used to writing. I don’t want to have anything to do with them–not a thing! You’ll have to answer them as if they were written to you–” Betton pulled himself up again, and rising in confusion jerked open one of the drawers of his writing-table.

“Here–this kind of rubbish,” he said, tossing a packet of letters onto Vyse’s knee.

“Oh–you keep them, do you?” said Vyse simply.

“I–well–some of them; a few of the funniest only.”

Vyse slipped off the band and began to open the letters. While he was glancing over them Betton again caught his own reflection in the glass, and asked himself what impression he had made on his visitor. It occurred to him for the first time that his high-coloured well-fed person presented the image of commercial rather than of intellectual achievement. He did not look like his own idea of the author of “Diadems and Faggots”–and he wondered why.

Vyse laid the letters aside. “I think I can do it–if you’ll give me a notion of the tone I’m to take.”

“The tone?”

“Yes–that is, if I’m to sign your name.”

“Oh, of course: I expect you to sign for me. As for the tone, say just what you’d–well, say all you can without encouraging them to answer.”

Vyse rose from his seat. “I could submit a few specimens,” he suggested.

“Oh, as to that–you always wrote better than I do,” said Betton handsomely.

“I’ve never had this kind of thing to write. When do you wish me to begin?” Vyse enquired, ignoring the tribute.

“The book’s out on Monday. The deluge will begin about three days after. Will you turn up on Thursday at this hour?” Betton held his hand out with real heartiness. “It was great luck for me, your striking that advertisement. Don’t be too harsh with my correspondents–I owe them something for having brought us together.”

II

THE deluge began punctually on the Thursday, and Vyse, arriving as punctually, had an impressive pile of letters to attack. Betton, on his way to the Park for a ride, came into the library, smoking the cigarette of indolence, to look over his secretary’s shoulder.

“How many of ’em? Twenty? Good Lord! It’s going to be worse than ‘Diadems.’ I’ve just had my first quiet breakfast in two years–time to read the papers and loaf. How I used to dread the sight of my letter-box! Now I sha’n’t know I have one.”

He leaned over Vyse’s chair, and the secretary handed him a letter.

“Here’s rather an exceptional one–lady, evidently. I thought you might want to answer it yourself–“

“Exceptional?” Betton ran over the mauve pages and tossed them down. “Why, my dear man, I get hundreds like that. You’ll have to be pretty short with her, or she’ll send her photograph.”

He clapped Vyse on the shoulder and turned away, humming a tune. “Stay to luncheon,” he called back gaily from the threshold.

After luncheon Vyse insisted on showing a few of his answers to the first batch of letters. “If I’ve struck the note I won’t bother you again,” he urged; and Betton groaningly consented.

“My dear fellow, they’re beautiful–too beautiful. I’ll be let in for a correspondence with every one of these people.”

Vyse, at this, meditated for a while above a blank sheet. “All right–how’s this?” he said, after another interval of rapid writing.

Betton glanced over the page. “By George–by George! Won’t she see it?” he exulted, between fear and rapture.

“It’s wonderful how little people see,” said Vyse reassuringly.