“Then it is not peace?”
“No,” she answered, with a smile; “not yet.”
She was standing beside Captain Bontnor, with her hand on his shoulder.
“Uncle and I,” she added, “are not beaten yet.”
Cipriani de Lloseta smiled darkly.
“Will you promise me one thing,” he said; “that when you are beaten you will come to me before you go to any one else?”
“Yes,” answered Eve, “I think we can promise that.”
CHAPTER III. BAFFLED.
He conquers who awaits the end.
Fortune fixed her wayward fancy on the first sketch that Eve contributed to the Commentator. Wayward, indeed, for Eve herself knew that it was not good, and in the lettered quiet of the editorial sanctum John Craik smiled querulously to himself. John Craik had a supreme contempt for the public taste, but he knew exactly what it wanted. He was like a chef smiling over his made dishes. He did not care for the flavour himself, but his palate was subtle enough to detect the sweet or bitter that tickled his master’s tongue. He served the public faithfully, with a twisted, cynic smile behind his spectacles--for John Craik had a family to feed. He knew that Eve’s work was only partially good--true woman’s work that might cease to flow at any moment. But he detected the undeniable originality of it, and the public palate likes a novel flavour.