easant afternoon in early summer, they were walking down Fifth
Avenue, deeply engrossed in a discussion of another of Correlli's
novels. Leon read novels in these days. He said he did so because it
was so pleasant to discuss them with Agnes. Besides, he found that
even in novels there might be something to learn. They were speaking
of that excellent work, _Thelma_.

"I think that it is Correlli's most finished work," Agnes was saying;
"but I am surprised at the similarity between it and Black's novel,
_The Princess of Thule_."

"I have not yet read that. Wherein lies the resemblance?"

"In both books we find the story divided into three parts. First, the
young Englishman seeking surcease from the _ennui_ of fashionable
society by a trip into the wild north country. Black sends his hero to
Ireland, and Correlli allows hers to visit Norway. Each discovers the
daughter of a descendant of old time kings; the _Princess of Thule_ in
one, and _Thelma_, the daughter of the Viking, in the other. The
marriage ends the first part in each instance. In the second, we find
the wedded couples in fashionable London society, and in each the girl
finds that she is incongruous with her surroundings, and after bearing
with it awhile, abandons the husband and returns to her old home,
alone. The finale is the same in each, the husband seeking his runaway
wife, and once more bringing her to his arms."

"Still, Miss Agnes,"--the formal "Miss Dudley" of the earlier days had
been unconsciously abandoned--"what you have told is only a theme. Two
artists may select the same landscape, and yet make totally different
pictures."

"So they have in this instance, and I think that Correlli's management
of the subject is far in advance of Black's, as beautiful and as
touching as that master's story is. The death of the old Viking
transcends anything in _The Princess of Thule_. I do not at all
disparage Correlli's work, only--well--it is hard to explain
myself--but I would be better pleased had there been no likeness
between the two."

"Yet I have no doubt that it is accidental, or, if there was any
imitation, that it was made unconsciously. I believe that a writer may
recall what he has read long before, and clothing the idea in his own
words, may easily believe that it is entirely original with himself.
There is one speech which Thelma makes, which I think most beautiful.
You remember where the busy-body tries to make mischief by telling
Thelma