"A book," owned Palmerston with gloom. "A man must try to raise himself somehow."
"Of course he must. What sort of book?"
"It's—it's only a story."
"Why," she reassured him, "I heard of a man the other day who wrote a story and made A Thousand Pounds. It was quite unexpected, and surprised even his friends."
"It must be the same man Mrs Bowldler told me about. His name was Walter Scott, and he called it 'Waverley' without signing his name to it, because he was a Sheriff; and there was another man that wrote a book called 'Picnic' by Boss, and made pounds. So I've called mine 'Pickerley,' by way of drawing attention,—but, of course, if you think there's no chance, I suppose there isn't," wound up Palmerston, with a sudden access of despondency.
"Oh, Palmerston," exclaimed Fancy, clasping her hands, "if it should only turn out that you're a genius!"
"It would be a bit of all right," he agreed, his cheerfulness reviving.
"I have heard somewhere," she mused, "or perhaps I read it on the newspaper, that men of genius make the very worst husbands, and a woman must be out of her senses to marry one."
Again Palmerston's face fell. "I mayn't be one after all," he protested, but not very hopefully.
"Oh yes, I am sure you are! And, what's more, if you make a hit, as they say, I don't know but I might overlook it and take the risk. You see, I'm accustomed to living with Mr Rogers, who is bound to go to hell and that might turn out to be a sort of practice."