t silent through the whole of dinner,
observing quietly those about him, but that at dessert he would suddenly
come to life and keep the whole table in roars of laughter. She feared
that Mr. Shrewsbury meant to imitate the great novelist in the first
particular, but was scarcely likely to follow his example in the last. At
length she asked him what he thought of the cathedral, and a few tepid
remarks followed.

"How unutterably this good lady bores me!" thought the author.

"How odd it is that his characters talk so well in his books, and that he
is such a stick!" thought Mrs. Selldon.

"I suppose it's the effect of cathedral-town atmosphere," reflected the
author.

"I suppose he is eaten up with conceit and won't trouble himself to talk
to me," thought the hostess.

By the time the fish had been removed they had arrived at a state of
mutual contempt. Mindful of the reputation they had to keep up, however,
they exerted themselves a little more while the _entrees_ went round.

"Seldom reads, I should fancy, and never thinks!" reflected the author,
glancing at Mrs. Selldon's placid unintellectual face. "What on earth
can I say to her?"

"Very unpractical, I am sure," reflected Mrs. Selldon. "The sort of man
who lives in a world of his own, and only lays down his pen to take up a
book. What subject shall I start?"

"What delightful weather we have been having the last few days!" observed
the author. "Real genuine summer weather at last." The same remark had
been trembling on Mrs. Selldon's lips. She assented with great
cheerfulness and alacrity; and over that invaluable topic, which is
always so safe, and so congenial, and so ready to hand, they grew quite
friendly, and the conversation for fully five minutes was animated.

An interval of thought followed.

"How wearisome is society!" reflected Mrs. Selldon. "It is hard that we
must spend so much money in giving dinners and have so much trouble for
so little enjoyment."

"One pays dearly for fame," reflected the author. "What a confounded
nuisance it is to waste all this time when there are the last proofs of
'What Caste?' to be done for the nine-o'clock post to-morrow morning!
Goodness knows what time I shall get to bed to-night!"

Then Mrs. Selldon thought regretfully of the comfortable easy chair that
she usually enjoyed after dinner, and the ten minutes' nap, and the
congenial needle-work. And Mark Shrewsbury thought of his chambers in
Pump C