"In the drawing-room, sir? Mrs. Weeks Wimbush."
"And in the dining-room?"

"A young lady, sir - waiting: I think a foreigner."
It was three o'clock, and on days when Paraday didn't lunch out he

attached a value to these appropriated hours. On which days,
however, didn't the dear man lunch out? Mrs. Wimbush, at such a

crisis, would have rushed round immediately after her own repast.
I went into the dining-room first, postponing the pleasure of

seeing how, upstairs, the lady of the barouche would, on my
arrival, point the moral of my sweet solicitude. No one took such

an interest as herself in his doing only what was good for him, and
she was always on the spot to see that he did it. She made

appointments with him to discuss the best means of economising his
time and protecting his privacy. She further made his health her

special business, and had so much sympathy with my own zeal for it
that she was the author of pleasing fictions on the subject of what

my devotion had led me to give up. I gave up nothing (I don't
count Mr. Pinhorn) because I had nothing, and all I had as yet

achieved was to find myself also in the menagerie. I had dashed in
to save my friend, but I had only got domesticated and wedged; so

that I could do little more for him than exchange with him over
people's heads looks of intense but futile intelligence.

CHAPTER VII.
THE young lady in the dining-room had a brave face, black hair,

blue eyes, and in her lap a big volume. "I've come for his
autograph," she said when I had explained to her that I was under

bonds to see people for him when he was occupied. "I've been
waiting half an hour, but I'm prepared to wait all day." I don't

know whether it was this that told me she was American, for the
propensity to wait all day is not in general characteristic of her

race. I was enlightened probably not so much by the spirit of the
utterance as by some quality of its sound. At any rate I saw she

had an individual patience and a lovely frock, together with an
expression that played among her pretty features like a breeze

among flowers. Putting her book on the table she showed me a
massive album, showily bound and full of autographs of price. The

collection of faded notes, of still more faded "thoughts," of
quotations, platitudes, signatures, represented a formidable

purpose.
I could only disclose my dread of it. "Most people apply to Mr.

Paraday by letter, you know."
"Yes, but he doesn't answer. I've written three times."

"Very true," I reflected; "the sort of letter you mean goes
straight into the fire."

"How do you know the sort I mean?" My interlocutress had blushed
and smiled, and in a moment she added: "I don't believe he gets

many like them!"
"I'm sure they're beautiful, but he burns without reading." I

didn't add that I had convinced him he ought to.
"Isn't he then in danger of burning things of importance?"

"He would perhaps be so if distinguished men hadn't an infallible
nose for nonsense."

She looked at me a moment - her face was sweet and gay. "Do YOU
burn without reading too?" - in answer to which I assured her that

if she'd trust me with her repository I'd see that Mr. Paraday
should write his name in it.

She considered a little. "That's very well, but it wouldn't make
me see him."

"Do you want very much to see him?" It seemed ungracious to
catechise so charming a creature, but somehow I had never yet taken

my duty to the great author so seriously.
"Enough to have come from America for the purpose."

I stared. "All alone?"
"I don't see that that's exactly your business, but if it will make

me more seductive I'll confess that I'm quite by myself. I had to
come alone or not come at all."

She was interesting; I could imagine she had lost parents, natural
protectors - could conceive even she had inherited money. I was at

a pass of my own fortunes when keeping hansoms at doors seemed to
me pure swagger. As a trick of this bold and sensitive girl,

however, it became romantic - a part of the general romance of her
freedom, her errand, her innocence. The confidence of young

Americans was notorious, and I speedily arrived at a conviction
that no impulse could have been more generous than the impulse that

had operated here. I foresaw at that moment that it would make her
my peculiarcharge, just as circumstances had made Neil Paraday.

She would be another person to look after, so that one's honour
would be concerned in guiding her straight. These things became

clearer to me later on; at the instant I had scepticism enough to
observe to her, as I turned the pages of her volume, that her net

had all the same caught many a big fish. She appeared to have had
fruitful access to the great ones of the earth; there were people

moreover whose signatures she had presumably secured without a
personal interview. She couldn't have worried George Washington

and Friedrich Schiller and Hannah More. She met this argument, to
my surprise, by throwing up the album without a pang. It wasn't

even her own; she was responsible for none of its treasures. It
belonged to a girl-friend in America, a young lady in a western

city. This young lady had insisted on her bringing it, to pick up
more autographs: she thought they might like to see, in Europe, in

what company they would be. The "girl-friend," the western city,
the immortal names, the curious errand, the idyllic faith, all made

a story as strange to me, and as beguiling, as some tale in the
Arabian Nights. Thus it was that my informant had encumbered

herself with the ponderous tome; but she hastened to assure me that
this was the first time she had brought it out. For her visit to

Mr. Paraday it had simply been a pretext. She didn't really care a
straw that he should write his name; what she did want was to look

straight into his face.
I demurred a little. "And why do you require to do that?"

"Because I just love him!" Before I could recover from the
agitating effect of this crystal ring my companion had continued:

"Hasn't there ever been any face that you've wanted to look into?"
How could I tell her so soon how much I appreciated the opportunity

of looking into hers? I could only assent in general to the
proposition that there were certainly for every one such yearnings,

and even such faces; and I felt the crisis demand all my lucidity,
all my wisdom. "Oh yes, I'm a student of physiognomy. Do you

mean," I pursued, "that you've a passion for Mr. Paraday's books?"
"They've been everything to me and a little more beside - I know

them by heart. They've completely taken hold of me. There's no
author about whom I'm in such a state as I'm in about Neil

Paraday."
"Permit me to remark then," I presently returned, "that you're one

of the right sort."
"One of the enthusiasts? Of course I am!"

"Oh there are enthusiasts who are quite of the wrong. I mean
you're one of those to whom an appeal can be made."

"An appeal?" Her face lighted as if with the chance of some great
sacrifice.

If she was ready for one it was only waiting for her, and in a
moment I mentioned it. "Give up this crude purpose of seeing him!

Go away without it. That will be far better."
She looked mystified, then turned visibly pale. "Why, hasn't he

any personal charm?" The girl was terrible and laughable in her
bright directness.

"Ah that dreadful word 'personally'!" I wailed; "we're dying of it,
for you women bring it out with murderous effect. When you meet

with a genius as fine as this idol of ours let him off the dreary
duty of being a personality as well. Know him only by what's best