not afraid to lead the way. I've the greatest possible regard for our
friend here,--but her book is a bad book, a thoroughly rotten book, an
unblushing compilation from half-a-dozen works of established
reputation, in pilfering from which she has almost always managed to
misapprehend her facts, and to muddle her dates. Then she writes to me
and asks me to do the best I can for her. I have done the best I
could.'

Mr Alf knew very well what Mr Booker had done, and Mr Booker was aware
of the extent of Mr Alf's knowledge. 'What you say is all very right,'
said Mr Booker; 'only you want a different kind of world to live in.'

'Just so;--and therefore we must make it different. I wonder how our
friend Broune felt when he saw that his critic had declared that the
"Criminal Queens" was the greatest historical work of modern days.'

'I didn't see the notice. There isn't much in the book, certainly, as
far as I have looked at it. I should have said that violent censure or
violent praise would be equally thrown away upon it. One doesn't want
to break a butterfly on the wheel;--especially a friendly butterfly.'

'As to the friendship, it should be kept separate. That's my idea,'
said Mr Alf, moving away.

'I'll never forget what you've done for me,--never!' said Lady Carbury,
holding Mr Broune's hand for a moment, as she whispered to him.

'Nothing more than my duty,' said he, smiling.

'I hope you'll learn to know that a woman can really be grateful,' she
replied. Then she let go his hand and moved away to some other guest.
There was a dash of true sincerity in what she had said. Of enduring
gratitude it may be doubtful whether she was capable: but at this
moment she did feel that Mr Broune had done much for her, and that she
would willingly make him some return of friendship. Of any feeling of
another sort, of any turn at the moment towards flirtation, of any
idea of encouragement to a gentleman who had once acted as though he
were her lover, she was absolutely innocent. She had forgotten that
little absurd episode in their joint lives. She was at any rate too
much in earnest at the present moment to think about it. But it was
otherwise with Mr Broune. He could not quite make up his mind whether
the lady was or was not in love with him,--or whether, if she were, it
was incumbent on him to indulge her;--and if so, in what manner. Then as
he looked after her, he told himself that she was certainly very
beautiful, that her