“This,” replied Despard; “you see in each novel there are certain situations. Perhaps on an average there may be forty each. Interesting characters also may average ten each. Thrilling scenes twenty each. Overwhelming catastrophes fifteen each. Now by reading novels singly the effect of all this is weakened, for you only have the work of each in its divided, isolated state, but where you read according to my plan you have the aggregate of all these effects in one combined--that is to say, in ten books which I read at once I have two hundred thrilling scenes, one hundred and fifty overwhelming catastrophes, one hundred interesting characters, and four hundred situations of absorbing fascination. Do you not see what an advantage there is in my plan? By following this rule I have been able to stimulate a somewhat faded appetite, and to keep abreast of the literature of the day.” “What an admirable plan! And do you read all books in that way? Why, one could write ten novels at a time on the same principle, and if so he ought to write very much better.” “I think I will try it some day. At present I am busily engaged with a learned treatise on the Symbolical Nature of the Mosaic Economy, and--” “The--what?” cried Mrs. Thornton, breathlessly. “What was that?” “The Symbolical Nature of the Mosaic Economy,” said Despard, placidly. “And is the title all your own?” “All my own.” “Then pray don’t write the book. The title is enough. Publish that, and see if it does not of itself by its own extraordinary merits bring you undying fame.” “I’ve been thinking seriously of doing so,” said Despard, “and I don’t know but that I may follow your advice. It will save some trouble, and perhaps amount to just as much in the end.” “And do you often have such brilliant fancies?” “No, frankly, not often. I consider that title the one great idea of my life.” “But do not dwell too much upon that,” said Mrs. Thornton, in a warning voice. “It might make you conceited.” “Do you think so?” rejoined the other, with a shudder. “Do you really think so? I hope not. At any rate I hope you do not like conceited people?” “No.” “Am I conceited?” “No. I like you,” replied Mrs. Thornton, with a slight bow and a wave of the hand, which she accompanied with a smile. “And I like you,” said Despard, in the same tone. “You could not do less.” “This,” said Despard, with an air of thoughtful seriousness, “is a solemn occasion. After such a tender confession from each of us what remains to be done? What is it that the novels lay down?” “I’m sure,” returned Mrs. Thornton, with the same assumed solemnity, “it is not for me to say. You must make the proposition.” “We cannot do any thing less than fly together.” “I should think not” “But where?” “And not only where, but how? By rail, by steamboat, or by canal? A canal strikes me as the best mode of flight. It is secluded.” “Free from observation,” said Despard. “Quiet,” rejoined Mrs. Thornton. “Poetic.” “Remote.”