How much more of our--fortunately not very valuable--time we devoted to this wonderful novel of ours, I cannot exactly say.

Turning the dogs'- eared leaves of the dilapidated diary that lies before me, I find the record of our later gatherings confused and incomplete.

For weeks there does not appear a single word.

Then comes an alarmingly business-like minute of a meeting at which there were--"Present: Jephson, MacShaughnassy, Brown, and Self"; and at which the "Proceedings commenced at 8.30." At what time the "proceedings" terminated, and what business was done, the chronicle, however, sayeth not; though, faintly pencilled in the margin of the page, I trace these hieroglyphics: "3.14.9-2.6.7," bringing out a result of "1.8.2." Evidently an unremunerative night.
On September 13th we seem to have become suddenly imbued with energy to a quite remarkable degree, for I read that we "Resolved to start the first chapter at once"-- "at once" being underlined.

After this spurt, we rest until October 4th, when we "Discussed whether it should be a novel of plot or of character," without--so far as the diary affords indication--arriving at any definite decision.