Arms and the Woman

During the first year of my residence in London there happened few

events worth chronicling. Shortly after my arrival Hillars

disappeared. His two months' vacation stretched into twelve, and I was

directed to remain in London. As I knew that Hillars did not wish to

be found I made no inquiries. He was somewhere on the Continent, but

where no one knew. At one time a letter dated at St. Petersburg

reached me, and at another time I was informed of his presence at Monte

Carlo. In neither letter was there any mention of her Serene Highness,

the Princess Hildegarde of Hohenphalia. Since the night he recounted

the adventure the wayward Princess had never become the topic of

conversation. I grew hopeful enough to believe that he had forgotten

her. Occasionally I received a long letter from Phyllis. I always

promptly answered it. To any one but me her letters would have proved

interesting reading. It was not for what she wrote that I cared, it

was the mere fact that she wrote. A man cannot find much pleasure in

letters which begin with "Dear friend," and end with "Yours sincerely,"

when they come from the woman he loves.

In the preceding autumn I completed my first novel. I carried it

around to publishers till I grew to hate it as one hates a Nemesis, and

when finally I did place it, it was with a publisher who had just

started in business and was necessarily obscure. I bowed politely to

my dreams of literary fame and became wholly absorbed in my

journalistic work. When the book came out I could not but admire the

excellence of the bookmaking, but as I looked through the reviews and

found no mention save in "books received," I threw the book aside and

vowed that it should be my last. The publisher wrote me that he was

surprised that the book had not caught on, as he considered the story

unusually clever. "Merit is one thing," he said, "but luck is

another." I have found this to be true, not only in literature, but in

all walks of life where fame and money are the goals. Phyllis wrote me

that she thought the book "just splendid"; but I took her praise with a

grain of salt, it being likely that she was partial to the author, and

that the real worth of the book was little in comparison with the fact

that it was I who wrote it.

One morning in early June I found three letters on my desk. The first

was from Hillars. He was in Vienna.