At half-past two the lady was announced—Miss de Montmorenci; and our editor, with palpitating heart, rose to welcome the very figure, the very same pretty walking-dress, the same little blue parasol, which he had seen upon the steps of the house in King-Charles Street. He could swear to the figure, and to the very step, although he could not as yet see the veiled face. And this was a joy to him; for, though he had not allowed himself to doubt much, he had doubted a little whether that graceful houri might or might not be his Josephine. Now she was there, present to him in his own castle, at his mercy as it were, so that he might dry her tears and bid her hope, or tell her that there was no hope so that she might still weep on, just as he pleased. It was not one of those cases in which want of bread and utter poverty are to be discussed. A horsekeeper’s bill and a visit to Dieppe were the melodramatic incidents of the tragedy, if tragedy it must be. Mr. Brown had in his time dealt with cases in which a starving mother or a dying father was the motive to which appeal was made. At worst there could be no more than a rose-water catastrophe; and it might be that triumph, and gratitude, and smiles would come. He rose from his chair, and, giving his hand gracefully to his visitor, led her to a seat.
“I am very glad to see you here, Miss de Montmorenci,” he said. Then the veil was raised, and there was the pretty face half blushing half smiling, wearing over all a mingled look of fun and fear.
“We are so much obliged to you, Mr. Brown, for all the trouble you have taken,” she said.
“Don’t mention it. It comes in the way of my business to take such trouble. The annoyance is in this, that I can so seldom do what is wanted.”
“It is so good of you to do anything!”
“An editor is, of course, bound to think first of the periodical which he produces.” This announcement Mr. Brown made, no doubt, with some little air of assumed personal dignity. The fact was one which no heaven-born editor ever forgets.
“Of course, Sir. And no doubt there are hundreds who want to get their things taken.”
“A good many there are, certainly.”
“And everything can’t be published,” said the sagacious beauty.
“No, indeed; very much comes into our hands which cannot be published,” replied the experienced editor. “But this novel of yours, perhaps, may be published.”
“You think so?”
“Indeed I do. I cannot say what X., Y., and Z. may say to it. I’m afraid they will not do more than offer half profits.”
“And that doesn’t mean any money paid at once?” asked the lady plaintively.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Ah! if that could be managed!”
“I haven’t seen the publishers, and of course I can say nothing myself. You see I’m so busy myself with my uncles, and aunts, and grandmothers, and ladyloves—”
“Ah—that was very naughty, Mr. Brown.”
“And then, you know, I have so many yards of stupid stuff to arrange.”
“Oh, Mr. Brown, you should forget all that!”
“So I will. I could not resist the temptation of telling you of it again, because you are so much mistaken in your accusation. And now about your novel.”
“It isn’t mine, you know.”
“Not yours?”
“Not my own, Mr. Brown.”
“Then whose is it?”
Mr. Brown, as he asked this question, felt that he had a right to be offended. “Are you not Josephine de Montmorenci?”
“Me an author! Oh no, Mr. Brown,” said the pretty little woman. And our editor almost thought that he could see a smile on her lips as she spoke.
“Then who are you?” asked Mr. Brown.
“I am her sister;—or rather her sister-in-law. My name is Mrs. Puffle.” How could Mrs. Puffle be the sister-in-law of Miss de Montmorenci? Some such thought as this passed through the editor’s mind, but it was not followed out to any conclusion. Relationships are complex things, and, as we all know, give rise to most intricate questions. In the half-moment that was allowed to him Mr. Brown reflected that Mrs. Puffle might be the sister-in-law of a Miss de Montmorenci; or, at least, half sister-in-law. It was even possible that Mrs. Puffle, young as she looked, might have been previously married to a de Montmorenci. Of all that, however, he would not now stop to unravel the details, but endeavoured as he went on to take some comfort from the fact that Puffle was no doubt Charles. Josephine might perhaps have no Charles. And then it became evident to him that the little fair, smiling, dimpled thing before him could hardly have written “Not so Black as he’s Painted,” with all its metaphysics. Josephine must be made of sterner stuff. And, after all, for an adventure, little dimples and a blue parasol are hardly appropriate. There should be more of stature than Mrs. Puffle possessed, with dark hair, and piercing eyes. The colour of
