“Miss Alice Melville—­Mr. Malcolm—­a successful author.  Your sister saw him here some months ago.”

The sight of a successful author was rather too much for Elsie’s present feelings.  Her eyes filled with tears, but yet she must speak.

“Yes, Jane told me she had that pleasure,” said she.

“Miss Melville is here also, I hope,” said Mr. Malcolm.

“Yes, she is talking to—­to Mr. Hogarth.”

“To Mr. Hogarth?  Yes, I see—­very good friends they appear to be, in spite of circumstances.  Two superior minds, you see.”

“He takes such care of your horses and dogs, Miss Alice; and as for your room, when mama proposed making it into a card-room, as it was larger than the library, he looked as black as thunder, and said he never would have cards played there.  It was a Blue Beard’s room, so we got no access to it.”

“I thought he would be kind to the animals; he promised as much to Jane.”

“Oh! indeed, he is as good as his word, then,” said Miss Rennie.  Then, recollecting that this talk must be painful to the girl, she turned to Mr. Malcolm, and asked how his evangelical novel was getting on.

“Finished, and in the press by this time.”

“Will it be a success?  But everything you write is a success, so I need not ask,” said Miss Rennie.

“The pub. says it has not exactly the genuine twang, but I hope no one will observe that but himself.  I have more incidents in it than usual in works of the class—­an elopement, a divorce, a duel, a murder, and a shipwreck.”

“I must have a first reading, recollect.  It must be so interesting,” said Miss Rennie.

“Thrilling, I should say,” said Mr. Brandon.  “Well, to me there is a deep mystery in bookmaking.  How one thing is to follow another—­and another to lead to another—­how everything is to culminate in marriage or a broken heart, and not a bit of the whole to be true, I cannot conceive; and as for poetry, it seems to me an absolute impossibility to make verses rhyme.  Can you tell me how it is done, Miss Melville?”

Elsie started.  “No, I cannot—­I cannot tell.”

“You must ask Miss Rennie about poetry,” said Mr. Malcolm; “she does some very excellent things in that way.”

“You perfidious creature, I see I must never tell you anything, for you are sure to come out with it at all times and all places,” said Miss Rennie.

“It is a true bill then,” said Mr. Brandon, bowing to the tenth muse.  “I cannot help wondering at you.  I must not approach so near you, for you are so far removed from my everyday prosaic sphere.  I must take shelter with Miss Melville, who knows nothing about the matter.  I cannot comprehend how people can make verses; it cannot be easy at any time.”

“It is sometimes easier than at other,” said Miss Rennie.  “If the subject is good the words flow correspondingly fast.”

“And what do you consider the best subject,—­marrying or burying, love or despair?  I suppose you have tried them all.”