made his debut in the London Press, I think, as a literary critic; and it is a pity (from the Tory point of view) that he did not remain a literary critic.  I am convinced that Mr. Balfour and Lord Lansdowne would personally subscribe large sums to found a literary paper for him to edit, on condition that he promised never to write another line of advice to their party.  The Telegraph would bleed copiously; the Observer would expire; the Fortnightly Review would stagger in its heavy stride, but there would be hope for Tories!...  In the meantime, five thousand copies of the English translation of “Marie Claire” were sold within a week of publication.  It is improbable that the total English sale will be less than ten thousand.  Now translated novels rarely achieve popularity.  The last one to be popular here was Fogazzaro’s “The Saint”; but the popularity of “The Saint” was not due to artistic causes.

* * * * *

I think I may say that I am thoroughly accustomed to the society of women novelists.  Peculiar circumstances in my obscure life have thrown me among women writers of all sorts; and I can boast that I have helped to form more than one woman novelist; so that the prospect of meeting a new one does not agitate me in the slightest degree.  I make friends with the new one at once, and in about two minutes we are discussing prices with the most touching familiarity.  Nevertheless, I own that I was somewhat disturbed in my Midland phlegm when the author of “Marie Claire” came to see me.  The book, read in the light of the circumstances of its composition, had unusually impressed me and stirred my imagination.  It was not the woman novelist who was coming to see me, but Marie Claire herself, shepherdess, farm-servant, and sempstress; it was a mysterious creature who had known how to excite enthusiasm in a whole regiment of literary young men....  And literary young men as a rule are extremely harsh, even offensive, in their attitude towards women writers.  I stood at the top of the toy stairs of the pavillon which I was then occupying in Paris, and Madame Marguerite Audoux came up the stairs towards me, preceded by one of her young sponsors, and followed by another.  A rather short, plump little lady, very simply dressed, and with the simplest possible manner—­just such a comfortable human being as in my part of the world is called a “body”!  She had, however, eyes of a softness and depth such as are not seen in my part of the world.  With that, a very quiet, timid, and sweet voice.  She was a sempstress; she looked like a sempstress; and she was well content to look like a sempstress.  Nobody would have guessed in ten thousand guesses that here was the author of the European book of the year.  But when she talked the resemblance to the sempstress soon vanished.  Sempstresses—­of whom I have also known many—­do not talk as she talked.  Not that she said much!  Not that she began to talk at once!  Far from it.  When I had referred to the goodness of her visit, and she had referred to the goodness of my invitation, and she was ensconced in an arm-chair near the fire, she quite simply left the pioneer work of conversation to her bodyguard.  Her bodyguard was very proud, and very nervous, as befitted its age.