e.

'Well, my dear, you don't expect ordinary novel-readers to know about Mr
Reardon. I wish my acquaintances were a better kind of people; then, of
course, I should hear of his books more often. But one has to make the
best of such society as offers. If you and your husband forsake me, I
shall feel it a sad loss; I shall indeed.'

Amy gave a quick glance at the speaker's face.

'Oh, we must be friends just the same,' she said, more naturally than
she had spoken hitherto. 'But don't ask us to come and dine just now.
All through this winter we shall be very busy, both of us. Indeed, we
have decided not to accept any invitations at all.'

'Then, so long as you let me come here now and then, I must give in. I
promise not to trouble you with any more complaining. But how you can
live such a life I don't know. I consider myself more of a reader than
women generally are, and I should be mortally offended if anyone called
me frivolous; but I must have a good deal of society. Really and truly,
I can't live without it.'

'No?' said Amy, with a smile which meant more than Edith could
interpret. It seemed slightly condescending.

'There's no knowing; perhaps if I had married a literary man---' She
paused, smiling and musing. 'But then I haven't, you see.' She laughed.
'Albert is anything but a bookworm, as you know.'

'You wouldn't wish him to be.'

'Oh no! Not a bookworm. To be sure, we suit each other very well indeed.
He likes society just as much as I do. It would be the death of him if
he didn't spend three-quarters of every day with lively people.'

'That's rather a large portion. But then you count yourself among the
lively ones.'

They exchanged looks, and laughed together.

'Of course you think me rather silly to want to talk so much with silly
people,' Edith went on. 'But then there's generally some amusement to
be got, you know. I don't take life quite so seriously as you do. People
are people, after all; it's good fun to see how they live and hear how
they talk.'

Amy felt that she was playing a sorry part. She thought of sour grapes,
and of the fox who had lost his tail. Worst of all, perhaps Edith
suspected the truth. She began to make inquiries about common
acquaintances, and fell into an easier current of gossip.

A quarter of an hour after the visitor's departure Reardon came back.
Amy had guessed aright; the necessity of selling his books weighed upon
him so that for the present he could do nothin