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all incidentals. Linen, dishes, pots and pans aplenty. All of it going for an old song. Two guineas a week, including fuel for your grates. You will find the company congenial—all of us here are writers. Elinor has the other half of the upper, and Millie Pilgrim is below. Both jolly gels, and Elinor is very genteel. Mr. Bellows, an ill-feathered young owl, has half the second floor. He was up at Oxford for one term, and is Arthur’s proofreader. Just between the two of us, Millie is unsteady in grammar and spelling, but Bellows polishes her up dandy. He also contributes the odd poem in a satirical vein. His Sara Agonistes was quite a hit. From Milton, you know.”
    My first reaction was that I would sooner live in a cellar than with this house of hacks. A brief reflection of the morning’s search, however, brought second thoughts. Four rooms sounded quite luxurious, and four furnished rooms at two guineas a week was a godsend. It would take some jawboning to talk Annie around, but I said, “I should like to look over the rooms in daylight. Shall we say tomorrow at ten?”
    “Tin it is. I cannot be interrupted during my working hours, but I’ll have Sal show you the rooms. You’ll not find better at the price, Miss Netter.” The bottle of water was lowering noticeably in the pitcher.
    “It sounds reasonable.”
    “Where is Paton? Is he not here yet?” She yanked the bell cord and Sal, the butler, came running.
    “He’s here! What a swell, Mum! An out and outer!” was her manner of announcing Mr. Paton.
    Mrs. Speers struggled up from her chair. Her step was unsteady as she headed for the door, looking from the rear like a shiny green hippopotamus wearing feathers on its head. “He is come to interview me for the Quarterly Review,” she announced grandly. “Such an honor. I didn’t half believe he would come, for he sent no reply to my invitation. No doubt that lummox of a Sal lost it.”
    She lurched out the door, and I sat on alone, wondering if I was imagining things. The prestigious Quarterly Review was actually taking Mrs. Speers seriously? They usually reviewed Walter Scott, Lord Byron, Roger Moore, and such luminaries. This literary life was a strange affair. And now I was to become a part of it. Whatever else it proved to be, it certainly was not dull.
     

Chapter Four
     
    Mrs. Speers was escorting Mr. Paton to her parlor as I made my way to the saloon. We met in the hallway. She did not stop to make us acquainted, but I heard myself being described as “a very refained young lady writer” as I turned the corner. The glimpse I had of Paton put me in no hurry to leave the party before he joined it.
    Quite apart from the good a review in the Quarterly could do my career, the highly polished article at Mrs. Speers’s side interested me. To my astonishment, Annie was ensconced on a sofa with Pepper when I returned to the saloon, sloshing down a glass of Mrs. Speers’s poison elixir. She was actually smiling! What on earth could Pepper be saying to her? She hadn’t smiled since we left home.
    I hurried forward and was offered a seat. “Mr. Pepper was just telling me about Ireland, Emma,” Annie explained. “He comes from Doneraile, not far from where I was born. Can you imagine such a coincidence!”
    Well, that accounted for the smiles. Mr. Pepper hadn’t an Irish name, and there was no hint of the brogue in his voice, but he had at least been born on the ould sod, and green blood was always enough for Annie.
    “I’ve bought back the old homestead,” he said, smiling lazily. “My parents are dead now, but I mean to retire there one of these days, after Miss Nesbitt has made me rich.”
    “Made us both rich, I hope,” I replied.
    “Let me get you a glass of wine, Miss Nesbitt,” he offered.
    “No, thank you!”
    He laughed merrily at that. “Not Lily’s poison. I keep my own case in the cellar.” There was a bottle on the table in front of them, and he poured me a glass of quite decent