forth—I heard a gruff, masculine voice cry out, 'Come in; and, having come, close after you the door. "For a moment I was staggered. Perhaps I had tapped on the wrong door. The thing to do was to apologize and get out. So I opened the door and saw sitting around a table, playing cards and smoking profusely, a half dozen men I knew well—Gaston of the 'Rambler,' Cholmondeley Phipps of the 'Telegram,' and others—all enormously clever men of decidedly Bohemian instincts.
"'Halloo, Bouverie,' cried Gaston, as I entered. 'Glad to see you. This is an unexpected pleasure.'
"'It certainly is for me,' I answered as well as I could, considering my surprise. 'I had no intention of disturbing you, I am sure. I came here to make a call on—on one of our authors. I believe he has rooms in this house.'
"Phipps laughed in a way I did not fancy very much, and then he said in a way I liked still less, 'He?'
"'I don't understand you,' I said.
"'You said you believed "He" had rooms in this house. Sure it's a he, Bouverie?'
"'Well,' I said slowly, for an idea was beginning to dawn on my mind, 'I wasn't sure of it when I spoke, but—'
"'There are no rooms let in this house, Bouverie,' said Gaston. 'We have it all. This is our cardroom, and you are welcome. In fact, Bouverie, you've paid for most of it.'
"'I?' I queried, a little mystified.
"'Yes,' returned Gaston, 'you and the British public. Those blasted Americans didn't pay for the stuff, did they, Phippsy?'
"'They did not,' said Phipps; 'but they printed our photograph for us.'
"'Well,' I put in, 'this is all very mysterious—unless I have been made the victim of a practical joke.'
"'You have,' said Gaston.
"'And you, gentlemen, then, are—'
"'The talented Miss Hope, at your service, Bouverie,' said Phipps, and then the sextet rose up and salaamed. 'Do you think our photograph looks like us?' they cried.
"And so it was. Those six villains had concocted Miss Hope; had written her books; had started the furor for her work in their own papers, and I was their victim."
"Victim or beneficiary?" asked Jackson.
"A little of both," returned Bouverie. "So much of one that I forgave them for making me a little of the other; but from that time on the talented Miss Hope stopped writing."
THE WHIP HAND.
By Ann Devoore.
SHE was a stunning girl, straight and slim, with a bewildering way of looking at a man. Her eyes were a warm, thick brown, and their lids as white as cream; the deluding sort of eyes and eyelids that say nothing and set you to imagining everything. When I had talked to her for five minutes and she had regarded me with her soft stare for most of that time, my heart went to thumping at my ribs. I must confess I was so much surprised that I clapped my hand to my side and laughed out.
Miss Morris laughed too, and asked, "What is the matter?"
Of course I could not tell her then, but when I had known her for a month, I asked her if she remembered our first meeting.
"Yes," she said; "what made you start?"
I took her hand and said, "I fell in love with you that minute, dear."
I am a Westerner, and rough and sudden in my ways, I suppose; for she seemed wholly startled, slipped her hand out of mine, and told me never to speak so again.
"Why not? "I asked. "You do not love me, Kitty?"
"No," she said, but her eyes lingered in mine.
"And you will not marry me? "
She refused steadily.
"And I am never again to tell you that I love you?"
"Never," she said.
"Kitty, dear," said I gently, "you do love me, and you are going to marry me, and I mean to propose to you every time I meet you."
