“Yes; it will take you to Algeria.”
“Good gracious!” cried Mr. Greyne.
Mrs. Greyne sighed.
“Good gracious!” Mr. Greyne repeated after a short interval. “Am I to go alone?” “Of course you must take Darrell.” Darrell was Mr. Greyne’s valet.
“And what am I to do at Algiers?”
“You must obtain for me there the whole of the material for book six of ‘Catherine’s Repentance,’” “Catherine’s Repentance” was the gigantic novel upon which Mrs. Greyne was at that moment engaged.
“I will not disguise from you, Eustace,” continued Mrs. Greyne, looking increasingly Rembrandtesque, “that, in my present work, I am taking a somewhat new departure.”
“Well, but we are very comfortable here,” said Mr. Greyne.
With each new book they had changed their abode. “Harriet” took them from Phillimore Gardens to Queensgate Terrace; “Jane’s Desire” moved them on to a corner house in Sloane Street; with “Isobel’s Fortune” they passed to Curzon Street; “Susan’s Vanity” landed them in Coburg Place; and, finally, “Margaret’s Involution” had planted them in Belgrave Square. Now, with each of these works of genius Mrs. Greyne had taken what she called “a new departure.” Mr. Greyne’s remark is, therefore, explicable.
“True. Still, there is always Park Lane.”