VII + 

A few weeks later, I sent for Mr. George Bulmer, and informed him of his avuncular connection with a genius; and waved certain typewritten pages to establish his title. + 

Subsequently I read aloud divers portions of As the Coming of Dawn, and Mr. Bulmer sipped Chianti, and listened. + 

“Look here!” he said, suddenly; “have you seen The Imperial Votaress?” + 

I frowned. It is always annoying to be interrupted in the middle of a particularly well-balanced sentence. “Don’t know the lady,” said I. + 

“She is advertised on half the posters in town,” said Mr. Bulmer. “And it is the book of the year. And it is your book.” + 

At this moment I laid down my manuscript. “I beg your pardon?” said I. + 

“Your book!” Uncle George repeated firmly; “and scarcely a hair’s difference between them, except in the names.” + 

“H’m!” I observed, in a careful voice. “Who wrote it?” + 

“Some female woman out west,” said Mr. Bulmer. “She’s a George Something-or-other when she publishes, of course, like all those authorines when they want to say about mankind at large what less gifted women only dare say about their sisters-in-law. I wish to heaven they would pick out some other Christian name when they want to cut up like pagans. Anyhow, I saw her real name somewhere, and I remember it began with an S⁠—Why, to be sure! it’s Marian Winwood.” + 

“Amaimon sounds well,” I observed; “Lucifer, well; Larbason, well; yet they are devils’ additions, the names of fiends: but⁠—Marian Winwood!” + 

“Dear me!” he remonstrated. “Why, she wrote A Bright Particular Star, you know, and The Acolytes, and lots of others.” + 

The author of As the Coming of Dawn swallowed a whole glass of Chianti at a gulp. + 

“Of course,” I said, slowly, “I cannot, in my rather peculiar position, run the risk of being charged with plagiarism⁠—by a Chinese-eyed mental sneak-thief.⁠ ⁠…” + 

Thereupon I threw the manuscript into the open fire, which my preference for the picturesque rendered necessary, even in May. + 

“Oh, look here!” my uncle cried, and caught up the papers. “It is infernally good, you know! Can’t you⁠—can’t you fix it⁠—and⁠—er⁠—change it a bit? Typewriting is so expensive these days that it seems a pity to waste all this.” + 

I took the manuscript and replaced it firmly among the embers. “As you justly observe,” said I, “it is infernally good. It is probably a deal better than anything else I shall ever write.” + 

“Why, then⁠—” said Uncle George. + 

“Why, then,” said I, “the only thing that remains to do is to read The Imperial Votaress.” + 