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thank you, Rud. And I have decided to retain my family name, which has served me quite well for my lifetime.”
    â€œYou are not changed by your elevation, then,” Kipling said, returning the grin. “Uncle Ned told me you’d be down, and is sorry he is detained in London. I trust you are well settled. Seabrooke House, is that where you are?”
    â€œYes, and it’s quite comfortable. How many years has it been since Lahore, Rud? Ten?”
    â€œTwelve, I make it,” Kipling replied. “Mian Mir in ’85, where the Fusiliers were stationed. I was turning out articles on army life, and you were—”
    â€œTying up the loose ends of my military career,” Charles said. He turned to Kate. “Kate, I should like you to meet Mr. Rudyard Kipling. Rud, my wife, Kathryn.”
    â€œLady Sheridan,” Kipling said, and bowed.
    â€œKate, please,” she said happily. It wasn’t every day that she was privileged to meet an author as famous as Mr. Kipling, and as highly respected. Everyone who had read Recessional was loud in its praise, although she much preferred the stories. “I do so admire your work, Mr. Kipling. Of your stories, ‘The Phantom Rickshaw’ is my favorite.” She paused, then quoted, in a low voice, “ ‘It is an awful thing to go down quick among the dead with scarcely one half of your life completed. It is a thousand times more awful to wait as I do in your midst, for I know not what unimaginable terror. Pity me, at least on the score of my delusion, for I know you will never believe what I have written here. Yet as surely as ever a man was done to death by the Powers of Darkness, I am that man.’ ”
    â€œGood heavens,” Kipling said, startled. “You have it by heart. How extraordinary.”
    â€œMy wife is a writer, as well,” Charles said, and Kate felt herself going red.
    â€œHardly ‘as well.’ ” she said quickly. “No one in the entire world writes as well as Mr. Kipling.”
    Kipling threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “Clever,” he said. “Very clever, Kate. But you must call me Rud, or Ruddy, for I see that we are going to become friends very quickly. Pardon me, but what sort of writer are you?”
    â€œA pseudonymous writer,” Kate replied. “It would hardly be to Charles’s advantage for his opponents in Parliament to know what his wife does for amusement.”
    â€œShe writes murder stories,” Charles said, sotto voce.
    â€œCharles!” Kate exclaimed. But it was true. Before she came to England, she had earned her living writing penny dreadfuls for the American popular press. Now, she wrote what she liked to think of as “suspenseful fiction,” for the British press, with rather more psychological interest than blood and violence.
    â€œMurder stories!” Kipling said. “Well, well. You must. allow me to read one or two of them.”
    â€œPerhaps you have,” Charles replied. “Her pen name is Beryl Bardwell.”
    â€œCharles!” Kate exclaimed again, more loudly. “I thought we agreed—”
    But Kipling was shaking his head. “Beryl Bardwell,” he said with a chuckle. “I have read your stories in Black-well’s and enjoyed every one—and the Aunt, too! Aunt Georgie—Lady Bume-Jones—will be pleased beyond words to know that you are here, and will absolutely insist on meeting you. You really must come up to The Elms. This evening, shall we say? We are not in a situation to invite guests to dinner, but I can at least promise dessert.”
    Kate could feel her face reddening once again. Although her stories had a wide readership, she was not accustomed to hearing them admired, and wondered fleetingly if Kipling was having fun at her expense. “Oh, but I—” she began.
    â€œI shall not take no for an answer,” Kipling said. “Our family has