After all, your man of dash and enterprise, your Napoleon, does have his moments. Without looking at her, he perceived that he had bowled her over completely. Something told him that she was staring at him, open-mouthed. Meanwhile, a voice within him was muttering anxiously, “I wonder how much this is going to cost.”      

       “You're going to buy 'Squibs!'”      

       Her voice had fallen away to an awestruck whisper.     

       “I am.”      

       She gulped.     

       “Well, I think you're wonderful.”      

       So did Roland.     

       “Where will a letter find you?” he asked.     

       “My name is March. Bessie March. I'm living at twenty-seven Guildford Street.”      

       “Twenty-seven. Thank you. Good morning. I will communicate with you in due course.”      

       He raised his hat and walked away. He had only gone a few steps, when there was a patter of feet behind him. He turned.     

       “I—I just wanted to thank you,” she said.     

       “Not at all,” said Roland. “Not at all.”      

       He went on his way, tingling with just triumph. Petheram? Who was Petheram? Who, in the name of goodness, was Petheram? He had put Petheram in his proper place, he rather fancied. Petheram, forsooth. Laughable.     

       A copy of the current number of 'Squibs,' purchased at a book-stall, informed him, after a minute search to find the editorial page, that the offices of the paper were in Fetter Lane. It was evidence of his exalted state of mind that he proceeded thither in a cab.     

       Fetter Lane is one of those streets in which rooms that have only just escaped being cupboards by a few feet achieve the dignity of offices. There might have been space to swing a cat in the editorial sanctum of       'Squibs,' but it would have been a near thing. As for the outer office, in which a vacant-faced lad of fifteen 

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