"Makes what easier?"
Mr. Winder sighed. "I do hope you won't mind." He glanced hastily at his companion and then away, and for a few moments an uneasy silence prevailed.
"You want to tell me that——" began Didcott, to help him.
"Would you mind telling someone to bring in the parcel the footman has left in the outer office?"
Slightly amused, Didcott touched the bell, and gave the needful directions. A minute later the boy brought in a bulky brown paper parcel.
When the door was closed Mr. Winder drew his chair close to Didcott's.
"It's a novel; she's written it," he whispered, eyeing his companion eagerly.
Didcott laughed. "Is that all? There's nothing in that. All girls do so sooner or later. It comes as surely as the measles. I expect you want me to read it. I will do so with pleasure."
"She wants it published," said Mr. Winder, forlornly.
"And why not? It won't cost much. And—and she needn't put her real name."