, and poets
would starve for want of a topic. I don't believe it, do you say? Ah,
well, we shall see.'

Picotee did not know what to say to this; and Ethelberta left the room to
see about her duties as public story-teller, in which capacity she had
undertaken to appear again this very evening.

20. THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE HALL--THE ROAD HOME

London was illuminated by the broad full moon. The pavements looked
white as if mantled with snow; ordinary houses were sublimated to the
rank of public buildings, public buildings to palaces, and the faces of
women walking the streets to those of calendared saints and
guardian-angels, by the pure bleaching light from the sky.

In the quiet little street where opened the private door of the Hall
chosen by Ethelberta for her story-telling, a brougham was waiting. The
time was about eleven o'clock; and presently a lady came out from the
building, the moonbeams forthwith flooding her face, which they showed to
be that of the Story-teller herself. She hastened across to the
carriage, when a second thought arrested her motion: telling the
man-servant and a woman inside the brougham to wait for her, she wrapped
up her features and glided round to the front of the house, where she
paused to observe the carriages and cabs driving up to receive the
fashionable crowd stepping down from the doors. Standing here in the
throng which her own talent and ingenuity had drawn together, she
appeared to enjoy herself by listening for a minute or two to the names
of several persons of more or less distinction as they were called out,
and then regarded attentively the faces of others of lesser degree: to
scrutinize the latter was, as the event proved, the real object of the
journey from round the corner. When nearly every one had left the doors,
she turned back disappointed. Ethelberta had been fancying that her
alienated lover Christopher was in the back rows to-night, but, as far as
could now be observed, the hopeful supposition was a false one.

When she got round to the back again, a man came forward. It was
Ladywell, whom she had spoken to already that evening. 'Allow me to
bring you your note-book, Mrs. Petherwin: I think you had forgotten it,'
he said. 'I assure you that nobody has handled it but myself.'

Ethelberta thanked him, and took the book. 'I use it to look into
between the parts, in case my memory should fail me,' she explained. 'I
remember that I did lay it