"I'm taking a bit of a holiday--well, scarcely a holiday; for I'm
thinking out a new novel," said Reggie, modestly, and with a little
blush.
"Dear me, you don't say so," said the old lady, opening her eyes wide.
"Wonder how you do it! Come in search of character, I suppose? Well,
here's your heroine, anyway."
"Yes, she is," said the boy, now blushing outright and nodding at Celia.
"She's been my heroine ever since I first saw her--in the British Museum
Reading Room, you know."
"That's a candid avowal," observed her ladyship, dryly, as Celia
laughed.
They chatted in this pleasant fashion, and, in due course, reached the
Grange. It was quite a merry little lunch, through which Reggie talked
incessantly, to the increased amusement of his good-natured hostess, and
confirming her good opinion of him.
"Now, you two children can go and sit on the terrace while I have my
nap. Wiggins, give Mr. Rex a cigar."
The two went out on the terrace; and scarcely waiting for him to light a
cigar, Celia demanded "his story."
"Oh, well; I've had a stroke of luck," he said, with a long breath. "And
it's all owing to you."
"To me!"
"Yes. You remember that 'short' I sent you? But, of course, you don't."
"Oh, yes, I do," Celia assured him. "It was an awfully good story."
"Well, backed up by all the fine things you said, I sent it to the
editor of the Piccadilly Magazine. He accepted it--perhaps he wasn't
well at the time--and more than that, he sent for me. I thought,
perhaps, he wanted to shoot me; but, bless you, no! He liked the thing
so much that he commissioned me to write a 'long, complete,' twenty
thousand words; so I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone, run down
into the country for a holiday and business combined. But, look here,
before I say another word, you've got to tell me what you're doing
here."
Celia told him as briefly as she could.
"Oh, but that's splendid!" he cried, seizing her hand and shaking it,
just as if she were another boy. "I say, you are a swell; and amongst
such swells; marquesses and lords and ladies of high degree! But, I say,
I am glad. How happy you must be!"
"I am," said Celia. "But go on, tell me about your novel; what kind of a
novel is it to be?"