This was because he had found out that they were not flesh and blood.  But he did not delight in his discovery:  it horrified him; for what he wanted was the old thrill.  To make them human so that they could be his little friends again—­nothing less was called for.  This meant slaughter here and there of the great Pym’s brain-work, and Tommy tried to keep his hands off; but his heart was in it.  In Pym’s pages the ladies were the most virtuous and proper of their sex (though dreadfully persecuted), but he merely told you so at the beginning, and now and again afterwards to fill up, and then allowed them to act with what may be called rashness, so that the story did not really suffer.  Before Tommy was nineteen he changed all that.  Out went this because she would not have done it, and that because she could not have done it.  Fathers might now have taken a lesson from T. Sandys in the upbringing of their daughters.  He even sternly struck out the diminutives.  With a pen in his hand and woman in his head, he had such noble thoughts that his tears of exaltation damped the pages as he wrote, and the ladies must have been astounded as well as proud to see what they were turning into.

That was Tommy with a pen in his hand and a handkerchief hard by; but it was another Tommy who, when the finest bursts were over, sat back in his chair and mused.  The lady was consistent now, and he would think about her, and think and think, until concentration, which is a pair of blazing eyes, seemed to draw her out of the pages to his side, and then he and she sported in a way forbidden in the tale.  While he sat there with eyes riveted, he had her to dinner at a restaurant, and took her up the river, and called her “little woman”; and when she held up her mouth he said tantalizingly that she must wait until he had finished his cigar.  This queer delight enjoyed, back he popped her into the story, where she was again the vehicle for such glorious sentiments that Elspeth, to whom he read the best of them, feared he was becoming too good to live.

In the meantime the great penny public were slowly growing restive, and at last the two little round men called on Pym to complain that he was falling off; and Pym turned them out of doors, and then sat down heroically to do what he had not done for two decades—­to read his latest work.

“Elspeth, go upstairs to your room,” whispered Tommy, and then he folded his arms proudly.  He should have been in a tremble, but latterly he had often felt that he must burst if he did not soon read some of his bits to Pym, more especially the passages about the hereafter; also the opening of Chapter Seventeen.

At first Pym’s only comment was, “It is the same old drivel as before; what more can they want?”

But presently he looked up, puzzled.  “Is this chapter yours or mine?” he demanded.

“It is about half and half,” said Tommy.

“Is mine the first half?  Where does yours begin?” “That is not exactly what I mean,” explained Tommy, in a glow, but backing a little; “you wrote that chapter first, and then I—­I—­”