Vluyck adjusted her spectacles as though they were the black
cap of condemnation. "I hardly see," she interposed, "how a book steeped
in the bitterest pessimism can be said to elevate, however much it may
instruct."

"I meant, of course, to instruct," said Mrs. Leveret, flurried by the
unexpected distinction between two terms which she had supposed to be
synonymous. Mrs. Leveret's enjoyment of the Lunch Club was frequently
marred by such surprises; and not knowing her own value to the other
ladies as a mirror for their mental complacency she was sometimes
troubled by a doubt of her worthiness to join in their debates. It was
only the fact of having a dull sister who thought her clever that saved
her from a sense of hopeless inferiority.

"Do they get married in the end?" Mrs. Roby interposed.

"They--who?" the Lunch Club collectively exclaimed.

"Why, the girl and man. It's a novel, isn't it? I always think that's
the one thing that matters. If they're parted it spoils my dinner."

Mrs. Plinth and Mrs. Ballinger exchanged scandalised glances, and the
latter said: "I should hardly advise you to read 'The Wings of Death,'
in that spirit. For my part, when there are so many books that one HAS
to read, I wonder how any one can find time for those that are merely
amusing."

"The beautiful part of it," Laura Glyde murmured, "is surely just
this--that no one can tell HOW 'The Wings of Death' ends. Osric Dane,
overcome by the dread significance of her own meaning, has mercifully
veiled it--perhaps even from herself--as Apelles, in representing the
sacrifice of Iphigenia, veiled the face of Agamemnon."

"What's that? Is it poetry?" whispered Mrs. Leveret nervously to Mrs.
Plinth, who, disdaining a definite reply, said coldly: "You should
look it up. I always make it a point to look things up." Her tone
added--"though I might easily have it done for me by the footman."

"I was about to say," Miss Van Vluyck resumed, "that it must always be a
question whether a book CAN instruct unless it elevates."

"Oh--" murmured Mrs. Leveret, now feeling herself hopelessly astray.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Ballinger, scenting in Miss Van Vluyck's tone
a tendency to depreciate the coveted distinction of entertaining Osric
Dane; "I don't know that such a question can seriously be raised as to a
book which has attracted more attention among thoughtful people than any
novel since 'Robert Elsmere.'"

"Oh, but don't you see," exclaimed