saw him sink, and I roamed alone about the empty terraces and gardens. His wife never came near him, but I scarcely noticed it; as I paced there with rage in my heart I was too full of another wrong. In the event of his death it would fall to me perhaps to bring out in some charming form, with notes, with the tenderest editorial care, that precious heritage of his written project. But where was the precious heritage, and were both the author and the book to be snatched from us? Lady Augusta wrote me that she had done all she could, and that poor Lord Dorimont, who had really been worried to death, was extremely sorry. I couldn't have the matter out with Mrs. Wimbush, for I didn't want to be taunted by her with desiring to aggrandize myself by a public connection with Mr. Faraday's sweepings. She had signified her willingness to meet the expense of all advertising, as indeed she was always ready to do. The last night of the horrible series, the night before he died, I put my ear closer to his pillow.
"That thing I read you that morning, you know."
"In your garden that dreadful day? Yes!"
"Won't it do as it is!"
"It would have been a glorious book."
"It is a glorious book," Neil Paraday murmured. "Print it as it stands—beautifully."
"Beautifully!" I passionately promised.
It may be imagined whether, now that he is gone, the promise seems to me less sacred. I am
