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Updated: June 15, 2025
Ernstone, she said, giving him her ungloved hand. 'Very likely you have forgotten when and how, but I am sure Dolly had not, had you, Dolly? But Dolly had, having been too much engrossed with her dog on the day of the breakdown to notice appearances, even of his preserver, very particularly. 'When did I see him before, Mabel? she whispered.
This old gentleman evidently supposed he had unearthed a great literary secret; but why had it made him so angry? 'Certainly not, he replied, firm and composed again now. 'I am Mr. Cyril Ernstone. I'm very sorry if it annoys you. 'It does annoy me, sir. I have a right to be annoyed, and you know the reason well enough! 'Do you know, said Mark languidly, 'I'm really afraid I don't.
The possessor of that bad eminence sat and shivered, as if engaged in a rough calculation of his chances of a whipping; but Dolly governed him on these occasions chiefly by the moral sanction an immunity he owed to his condition. 'And this, said Dolly, scathingly, 'this is the dog you saved from the train, Mr. Ernstone! There's gratitude!
Amongst the books sent in that week was 'Illusion, a romance by Cyril Ernstone, and Mabel had looked at its neat grey-green covers and red lettering with a little curiosity, for somebody had spoken of it to her the day before, and she took it up with the intention of reading a chapter or two before going out with her racket into the square, where the tennis season had already set in on the level corner of the lawn.
But now a reaction in his favour was setting in; his publishers were already talking of a second edition of 'Illusion, and he received, under his name of 'Cyril Ernstone, countless letters of congratulation and kindly criticism, all so pleasantly and cordially worded, that each successive note made him angrier, the only one that consoled him at all being a communication in a female hand which abused the book and its writer in the most unmeasured terms.
He plainly undervalued his work himself, and its popularity was a real vexation to him. She could only be sorry for him. 'But I see proof of it in others every now and then, continued Mark, 'people who do not connect me at first with "Cyril Ernstone." Only the other day some of them went so far as to apologise for having snubbed me "before they knew who I was."
'And now let us talk about your delightful "Illusion," Mr. Ernstone, she said graciously. 'Do you know, I felt when I read your book that some of my innermost thoughts, my highest aspirations, had been put into words and such words for me! It was soul speaking to soul, and you get that in so few novels, you know! What a rapture literary creation is! Don't you feel that?
Ciril Ernstone, it ran, 'I want you to tell me how you knew that I ate that sugar prince in your story, and if you meant me really. Perhaps you made that part of it up, or else it was some other girl, but please write and tell me who it was and all about it, because I do so hate to think I've eaten up a real fairy without knowing it.
'A few days ago I should have said certainly not; as it is I presume you are anxious to meet Mr. Ernstone? 'I am, said Vincent: 'very much so. 'Ah, just so; well, it happens that you need not have given yourself the trouble to come here to ask that question. As you are here, however, I can gratify your curiosity without the slightest breach of confidence.
And so in due time Mark read, with a certain curious thrill, the announcement that 'Illusion, a romance by Cyril Ernstone, was 'now ready at all libraries; he sent no presentation copies, not even to Trixie he had thought of doing so, but when it came to the point he could not.
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