s were radiant as
she phrased a thought which in English would have required many words
for the--blunting of its point. M. Silvenoire, who--with the slight
disadvantage of knowing no tongue but his own--was making a study of
English social life, found himself at ease this evening for the first
time since he had been in London. Encouraged to talk his best, he
frankly and amusingly told Mrs. Lessingham of the ideas he had formed
regarding conversation in the drawing-rooms of English ladies.

"Civilization is spreading among us," she replied, with a laugh. "Once
or twice it has been my privilege to introduce young Frenchmen, who
were studying our language, to English families abroad, and in those
cases I privately recommended to them a careful study of Anthony
Trollope's novels, that they might learn what is permissible in
conversation and what is not. But here and there in London you will
find it possible to discuss things that interest reasonable beings."

At the door sounded the name of "Mr. Biekerdike," and there advanced
towards the hostess a tall, ugly young man, known by repute to all the
English people present. He was the author of a novel called "A Crown of
Lilies," which was much talked of just now, and excited no less
ridicule than admiration, On the one hand, it was lauded for delicate
purity and idealism; on the other, it was scoffed at for artificiality
and affected refinement. Mrs. Lessingham had met him for the first time
a week ago. Her invitation was not due to approval of his book, but to
personal interest which the author moved in her; she was curious to
discover how far the idealism of "A Crown of Lilies" was a genuine
fruit of the man's nature. Mr. Bickerdike's countenance did not promise
clarity of soul; his features were distinctly coarse, and the glance he
threw round the room on entering made large demands.

Irene Delph was talking with a young married lady named Mrs. Travis;
they both regarded Mr. Bickerdike with close scrutiny.

"Who could have imagined such an author for the book!" murmured the
girl, in wonder.

"I could perfectly well," murmured back Mrs. Travis, with a smile which
revealed knowledge of humanity.

"I pictured a very youthful man, with a face of effeminate
beauty--probably a hectic colour in his cheeks."

"Such men don't write 'the novel of the season.' This gentleman is very
shrewd; he gauges the public. Some day, if he sees fit, he will write a
brutal book, and it wil