eptible in more than one page of 'Sweet Bells
Jangled.' Mabel felt her heart grow heavier as she read. Why had he
chosen to deliberately lower his level like this? Where were the
strong and masterly touch, the tenderness and the dignity of his first
book? That had faults, too, even faults of taste--but here the faults
had almost overgrown the taste! Surely if she read on, she would find
the style attain the old distinction, and the tone grow noble and
tender once again--but she read on, and the style was always the same,
and the tone, if anything, rather worse!

Mark had long since moved to a spot where he could command her face;
her fine eyebrows were slightly drawn, her long lashes lowered, and
her mouth compressed as if with pain--somehow the sight did not
encourage him. She was becoming conscious that her expression was
being closely watched, which seldom adds a charm to reading, and at
last she could persevere no longer, and shut the book with a faint
sigh.

'Well,' said Mark, desperately; he felt as if his fate hung on her
answer.

'I--I--have read so little yet,' she said; 'let me tell you what I
think at the end!'

'Tell me what you think of it so far,' said Mark.

'_Must_ I?' she said, almost imploringly.

'Yes,' said Mark, with a grating attempt at a laugh; 'put me out of my
misery!'

She loved him too well to make some flattering or evasive reply--she
was jealous for his reputation, and could not see him peril it without
a protest. 'Oh, Mark,' she cried, locking her hands and pressing them
tight together, 'you must feel yourself--it is not your best--you have
done such great work--you will again, I know, dear--but this, it is
not worthy of you--it is not worthy of "Illusion"!'

He knew too well that it was his best, that it was not in him to do
better; if the world's verdict agreed with hers, he was a failure
indeed. He had been persuading himself that, after all, he was not a
common impostor, that he had genius of his own which would be
acknowledged far above his friend's talent; now all at once the
conviction began to crumble.

He turned upon her with a white face and a look of anger and
mortification in his eyes. 'The first is always the best, of course,'
he said bitterly; 'that is the regulation verdict. If "Sweet Bells"
had come first, and "Illusion" second, you would have seen this sad
falling off in the _second_ book. I did not think _you_ would be the
first to take up that silly old cry,