her work. What had been said about his work in the 'Breakfast
Table' had been very distasteful to poor Mr Booker. It grieved his
inner contemplative intelligence that such rubbish should be thrown
upon him; but in his outside experience of life he knew that even the
rubbish was valuable, and that he must pay for it in the manner to
which he had unfortunately become accustomed. So Mr Booker himself
wrote the article on the 'Criminal Queens' in the 'Literary
Chronicle,' knowing that what he wrote would also be rubbish.
'Remarkable vivacity.' 'Power of delineating character.' 'Excellent
choice of subject.' 'Considerable intimacy with the historical details
of various periods.' 'The literary world would be sure to hear of Lady
Carbury again.' The composition of the review, together with the
reading of the book, consumed altogether perhaps an hour of Mr
Booker's time. He made no attempt to cut the pages, but here and there
read those that were open. He had done this kind of thing so often,
that he knew well what he was about. He could have reviewed such a
book when he was three parts asleep. When the work was done he threw
down his pen and uttered a deep sigh. He felt it to be hard upon him
that he should be compelled, by the exigencies of his position, to
descend so low in literature; but it did not occur to him to reflect
that in fact he was not compelled, and that he was quite at liberty to
break stones, or to starve honestly, if no other honest mode of
carrying on his career was open to him. 'If I didn't, somebody else
would,' he said to himself.

But the review in the 'Morning Breakfast Table' was the making of Lady
Carbury's book, as far as it ever was made. Mr Broune saw the lady
after the receipt of the letter given in the first chapter of this
Tale, and was induced to make valuable promises which had been fully
performed. Two whole columns had been devoted to the work, and the
world had been assured that no more delightful mixture of amusement
and instruction had ever been concocted than Lady Carbury's 'Criminal
Queens.' It was the very book that had been wanted for years. It was a
work of infinite research and brilliant imagination combined. There
had been no hesitation in the laying on of the paint. At that last
meeting Lady Carbury had been very soft, very handsome, and very
winning; Mr Broune had given the order with good will, and it had been
obeyed in the same feeling.

Therefore, though the crushing had be