Valentine, who was seldom out of countenance on any occasion, received the congratulations of all the party with a certain rather becoming pride and complacency.  He seemed, however, to be taking things very easily? but he presently became rather silent, and John, who felt keenly that Brandon was not so indifferent to the bride-elect as he wished to be, turned the conversation as soon as he could to other matters.  There was some talk about Valentine’s land which had been bought for him in New Zealand, after which Brandon said suddenly,—­

“John, when this fellow is gone, or perhaps before, I mean to have something to do—­some regular work—­and I think of taking to literature in good earnest.”

“All right,” answered John, “and as you evidently intend me to question you, I will ask first whether you, Giles Brandon, mean to write on some subject that you understand, or on one that you know nothing about?”

Brandon laughed.  “There is more to be said in favour of that last than you think,” he answered.

“It may be that there is everything to be said; but if you practise it, don’t put your name to your work, that’s all.”

“I shall not do so in any case.  How do I know whether the only use people may make of it (and that a metaphorical one) may not be to throw it at me ever after.”

“I don’t like that,” said Miss Christie.  “I could wish that every man should own his own.”

“No,” remarked John Mortimer; “if a man in youth writes a foolish book and gives his name to it, he has, so far as his name is concerned, used his one chance; and if, in maturer life, he writes something high and good, then if he wants his wise child to live, he must consent to die himself with the foolish one.  It is much the same with one who has become notorious through the doing of some base or foolish action.  If he repent, rise to better things, and write a noble book, he must not claim it as if it could elevate him.  It must go forth on its own merits, or it will not be recognised for what it is, only for what he is or was.  No, if a man wants to bring in new thoughts or work elevating changes, he must not clog them with a name that has been despised.”

“I think Dorothea and I may as well write a book together,” said Valentine.  “She did begin one, but somehow it stuck fast.”

“You had better write it about yourselves, then,” said John, “that being nearly all you study just now, I should think.  Many a novel contains the author and little else.  He explains himself in trying to describe human nature.”

“Human nature!” exclaimed Valentine; “we must have something grander than that to write of, I can tell you.  We have read so many books that turn it ‘the seamy side outward,’ and point out the joins as if it was a glove, that we cannot condescend to it.”