Laura and Mrs. Melcombe experienced a certain discomfort here.  Neither would have been so rude as to laugh; in fact, what was there to laugh at?  They were shut out not only from the laugh, but from that state of feeling which made these cousins, including the victim, enjoy it, against one of themselves.

As for Mrs. Henfrey, who also was without any perception of the humorous side of things, she looked on with a beaming countenance; pleased with them all for being in such good spirits, whatever might be the reason, for, as she always expressed it, she did so love to see young people happy.

“It’s capital,” said John, but not so good as the prose reviewing they give you; and all this most excellent fun we should lose, you know, Giles, if you might have your way, and all sorts of criticism and reviewing had to be signed with the writer’s name.”

“But it would make the thing much more fair and moderate,” said Brandon “(not that I intended to include such little squibs as this); besides, it would secure a man against being reviewed by his own rivals—­or his enemies.”

“Yes,” said Valentine; “but that sort of thing would tell both ways.”

As he spoke with great gravity Mrs. Melcombe, mainly in the kind hope of helping dear Laura’s mistake into the background, asked with an air of interest what he meant.

“Well,” said Valentine, with calm audacity, “to give an example.  Suppose a man writes something, call it anything you please—­call it a lecture if you like—­say that it is partly political, and that it is published by request; and suppose further that somebody, name unknown, writes an interesting account of its scope and general merits, and it is put into some periodical—­you can call it anything you please—­say a county paper, for instance.  The author is set in the best light, and the reviewer brings forward also some of his own views, which is quite fair——­”

As he seemed to be appealing to Laura, Laura said, “Yes; perfectly fair.”

“His own views—­on—­on the currency or anything else you like to mention.”  Here John Mortimer asked Mrs. Melcombe if she would take some more wine, Valentine proceeding gravely:  “Now do you or do you not think that if that review had been signed by the lecturer’s father, brother, or friend almost as intimate as a brother, it would have carried more weight or less in consequence?”

As several of them smiled, Mrs. Melcombe immediately felt uncomfortable again.

“If what he said was true,” she said, “I cannot exactly see——­” and here she paused.

“Well,” said John Mortimer, observing that the attention of his keen-witted little daughter was excited, and being desirous, it seemed, to give a plainer example of what it all meant, “let us say now, for once, that I am a poet.  I send out a new book, and sit quaking.  The first three reviews appear.  Given in little they read thus:—­

“One.  ’He copied from Snooks, whose immortal work, “The Loves of the Linendraper,” is a comfort and a joy to our generation.’