that the author's design was a comedy, and that in
comedy the people are not and perhaps should not be above life size. But
why apologize for what needs no apology? Alice Barton is a creature of
conventions and prejudices, not her mother's but her own; so far she had
freed herself, and it may well be that none obtains a wider liberty. She
leaves her home with the dispensary doctor, who has bought a small
practice in Notting Hill, and the end seems a fulfilment of the
beginning. The author conducts her to the door of womanhood, and there
he leaves her with the joys and troubles, no doubt, of her new estate;
but with these he apparently does not consider himself to be concerned,
though he seems to have meditated at this time a sort of small _comedie
humaine_--small, for he must have known that he could not withstand the
strain of Balzac's shifts of fourteen hours. We are glad he was able to
conquer the temptation to imitate, yet we cannot forego a regret that he
did not turn to Violet Scully that was and look into the married life of
the Marchioness of Kilcamey--her grey intense eyes shining through a
grey veil, and her delightful thinness--her epicene bosom and long
thighs are the outward signs of a temper, constant perhaps, but not
narrow. He would have been able to discover an intrigue of an engaging
kind in her, and the thinking out of the predestined male would have
been as agreeable a task as falls to the lot of a man of letters. And
being a young man he would begin by considering the long series of
poets, painters and musicians, he had read of in Balzac's novels, but as
none of these would be within the harmony of Violet's perverse humour,
he would turn to life, and presently a vague shaggy shape would emerge
from the back of his mind, but it would refuse to condense into any
recognizable face; which is as well, perhaps, else I might be tempted to
pick up this forgotten flower, though I am fain to write no more long
stories.

But though we regret that the author of _Muslin_ did not gather this
Violet for his literary buttonhole, let no one suggest that the old man
should return to his Springtime to do what the young man left undone.
Our gathering-time is over, and we are henceforth prefacers. _The Brook
Cherith_ is our last. Some may hear this decision with sorrow, but we
have written eighteen books, which is at least ten too many, and none
shall persuade us to pick up the burden of another long story. We swear
it