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Chapter 12

           Isupposeyouwere—originallyImean—anauthorbyprofession?"

           Acurioussenseofangerburneddullywithinme.‘Originally’anauthor?WasInotonestill?WasItobegivencreditfornothingbutmybanking-book?‘Originally’?Why,Ihadneverbeenanactual‘author’tillnow—Ihadsimplybeenawanderingliteraryhack—astray‘super’ofGrubStreet,occasionallyengagedtowritearticles‘toorder’onanysubjectthatcameuppermost,atastarvationrateofpay,withoutanyvisibleprospectofrisingfromthatlowestanddirtiestrungoftheliteraryladder.Ifeltmyselfgrowingred,thenpale—andIsawthatLuciowaslookingatmefixedly.

           "Iamanauthor,LadySibyl"—Isaidatlast—"andIhopeImaysoonprovemyrighttobeacknowledgedasone.‘Author’isinmyopinion,aproudertitlethanking,andIdonotthinkanysocialclaimswilldetermefromfollowingtheprofessionofliterature,whichIlookuponasthehighestintheworld."

           LordEltonfidgetteduneasilyinhischair.

           "Butyourpeople"—hesaid—"Yourfamily—aretheyliterary?"

           "Nomembersofmyfamilyarenowliving,"—Iansweredsomewhatstiffly—"MyfatherwasJohnTempestofRexmoor."

           "Indeed!"andtheEarl’sfacebrightenedconsiderably—"Dearme,dearme!Iusedtomeethimofteninthehuntingfieldyearsago.Youcomeofafineoldstock,sir!—theTempestsofRexmoorarewellandhonourablyknownincountychronicles."

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