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448 Lady Bayne, with the interest of a friend and the discretion of an enemy, took in all the breakfast table to Alicia's confidence.

"She's had no end of hard luck. She's been quite a dependant on her aunt for years, although lately she's been writing those clever little things for pin-money. Now just fancy, her aunt has lost every sou and Alicia hopes to recoup the fallen fortune of the family with 'The Primrose Way'!" She looked meaningly at the director of Murges & Company, who flushed and returned with warmth,—

"It's an awfully clever thing. Lady Bayne, and we are going to make it the success of the season in England and America."

Which was warm criticism from one who had not read a word of the manuscript, and a sound promise from a man whose will meant success.

But characteristics that had made Coverton,—Success,—for some caprice turned all against him in the phase of his life co-relative to a woman. He developed into that losing thing, Hesitation, when Agitation, if ever, was called for. He did not "take ship for France." He dallied. Gold had been molten in his hands; he gave his coin what face value his need called for; but love (if love this were) held him in its own mould.

He delighted himself in putting Miss Brookfield's book on the market in London and New York. No novel in this day of ephemeral successes was more ecstatically boomed, more sugar-coatedly forced down the Public Throat.

An enormous edition sold before the book appeared, and it went its selling course thousands by thousands strong. He delighted in the correspondence between Murges & Company and Miss Brookfidd, and laid, one by one, the laurels of "The Primrose Way" before her, until they formed a green—nay, golden—luxuriance. He was blind to the skits, reviews, and scathing criticisms which daring critics flung; well-directed rockets, they cleared the blaze of glory of the book's financial success. Still it sold; for no sooner did Murges & Company feel the pulse of the market slack towards new orders than a fresh torpedo fell in the proper place, scattered noise for "The Primrose Way," and further editions disappeared like manna in the sun!

Thus seven months went skimming, and he contented himself with writing her agreeable letters, reading and re-reading her spirited, charming epistles that treated all that touched the friendship of Murges & Company with warmth, and all that touched "The Primrose Way"—per se—with gentle irony. "She values it for what it is: she is vastly superior to her book," he was glad to decide.

But in the spring Coverton, his private safe closed, his writing-table locked and sealed, he himself, with a certain sentiment, drew