"Like enough there's a young lady in Lunnon," she suggested.
"There is no young lady—anywhere," said Hemming, "and I'm no longer in the army. I'm at another trade now."
"Trade?" exclaimed Thomson.
"Well, hardly that," laughed Hemming. "I write for a living."
Mrs. Thomson nodded with satisfaction.
"The queen's son-in-law wrote a book," she said.
"I hardly do that kind," said Hemming, uneasily.
"I vum you don't, sir," cried the man, whacking the table, "not if the missus means the book she read to me out of, oncet."
Hemming was pleased with the old man's shrewdness, though Mrs. Thomson was shocked at his insinuations.
Hemming settled down in the cottage, much to the delight of the old couple. A fair-sized room on the ground floor was given over to him, for bedroom and study. The success of his last article had suggested to him the writing of a book about what he knew, and had seen, of the last brief campaign—something more lasting than his syndicate work, and more carefully done. This work would have colour, not too heavily splashed on; style, not too aggressive; and dignity befitting the subject. He decided that he must prune his newspaper style considerably for the book. So he settled down to his work, and after three days' honest labour, all that stood of it was the title, "Where Might Is Right." Strange to say, this seeming failure did not discourage him. He knew what he had to say, and felt that as soon as the right note for the expression of it was struck, it would be easy to go on. The pages he so ruthlessly destroyed were splendid newspaper copy, but he knew the objection thinking men have to finding newspaper work between the covers of a book. But at last the opening chapter was done to his taste; and after that the work was easy and pleasant. It soon became his habit to get out of bed in time to breakfast with Thomson, who was a thrifty market-gardener on a small scale. After his breakfast he smoked a cigar in the garden, and sometimes told stories of his adventures to his host. By eight o'clock he was at his table, writing rapidly, but not steadily, until twelve o'clock. After the simple midday dinner he walked for several hours, and seldom went back to his work until candle-time. In this way, with books and magazines sent down every week from London, he managed to put in his time without letting himself think too often of Molly Travers. Nothing in the village reminded him of her, and his healthy days brought him, for the most part, dreamless nights.