xcursions into
the general talk, young Corey talked to her; and Lapham caught some
words from which it seemed that they were speaking of Penelope. It
vexed him to think she had not come; she could have talked as well as
any of them; she was just as bright; and Lapham was aware that Irene
was not as bright, though when he looked at her face, triumphant in its
young beauty and fondness, he said to himself that it did not make any
difference. He felt that he was not holding up his end of the line,
however. When some one spoke to him he could only summon a few words
of reply, that seemed to lead to nothing; things often came into his
mind appropriate to what they were saying, but before he could get them
out they were off on something else; they jumped about so, he could not
keep up; but he felt, all the same, that he was not doing himself
justice.

At one time the talk ran off upon a subject that Lapham had never heard
talked of before; but again he was vexed that Penelope was not there,
to have her say; he believed that her say would have been worth hearing.

Miss Kingsbury leaned forward and asked Charles Bellingham if he had
read Tears, Idle Tears, the novel that was making such a sensation; and
when he said no, she said she wondered at him. "It's perfectly
heart-breaking, as you'll imagine from the name; but there's such a
dear old-fashioned hero and heroine in it, who keep dying for each
other all the way through, and making the most wildly satisfactory and
unnecessary sacrifices for each other. You feel as if you'd done them
yourself."

"Ah, that's the secret of its success," said Bromfield Corey. "It
flatters the reader by painting the characters colossal, but with his
limp and stoop, so that he feels himself of their supernatural
proportions. You've read it, Nanny?"

"Yes," said his daughter. "It ought to have been called Slop, Silly
Slop."

"Oh, not quite SLOP, Nanny," pleaded Miss Kingsbury.

"It's astonishing," said Charles Bellingham, "how we do like the books
that go for our heart-strings. And I really suppose that you can't put
a more popular thing than self-sacrifice into a novel. We do like to
see people suffering sublimely."

"There was talk some years ago," said James Bellingham, "about novels
going out." "They're just coming in!" cried Miss Kingsbury.

"Yes," said Mr. Sewell, the minister. "And I don't think there ever
was a time when they formed the whole intellectual experience of m