“You are fond of books as well as of music, riding, and archery, I hear,” Mrs. Arrowpoint said, going to her for a _tête-à-tête_ in the drawing-room after dinner. “Catherine will be very glad to have so sympathetic a neighbor.” This little speech might have seemed the most graceful politeness, spoken in a low, melodious tone; but with a twang, fatally loud, it gave Gwendolen a sense of exercising patronage when she answered, gracefully: “It is I who am fortunate. Miss Arrowpoint will teach me what good music is. I shall be entirely a learner. I hear that she is a thorough musician.” “Catherine has certainly had every advantage. We have a first-rate musician in the house now—Herr Klesmer; perhaps you know all his compositions. You must allow me to introduce him to you. You sing, I believe. Catherine plays three instruments, but she does not sing. I hope you will let us hear you. I understand you are an accomplished singer.” “Oh, no!—‘die Kraft ist schwach, allein die Lust ist gross,’ as Mephistopheles says.” “Ah, you are a student of Goethe. Young ladies are so advanced now. I suppose you have read everything.” “No, really. I shall be so glad if you will tell me what to read. I have been looking into all the books in the library at Offendene, but there is nothing readable. The leaves all stick together and smell musty. I wish I could write books to amuse myself, as you can! How delightful it must be to write books after one’s own taste instead of reading other people’s! Home-made books must be so nice.” For an instant Mrs. Arrowpoint’s glance was a little sharper, but the perilous resemblance to satire in the last sentence took the hue of girlish simplicity when Gwendolen added, “I would give anything to write a book!” “And why should you not?” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, encouragingly. “You have but to begin as I did. Pen, ink, and paper are at everybody’s command. But I will send you all I have written with pleasure.” “Thanks. I shall be so glad to read your writings. Being acquainted with authors must give a peculiar understanding of their books: one would be able to tell then which parts were funny and which serious. I am sure I often laugh in the wrong place.” Here Gwendolen herself became aware of danger, and added quickly, “In Shakespeare, you know, and other great writers that we can never see. But I always want to know more than there is in the books.” “If you are interested in any of my subjects I can lend you many extra sheets in manuscript,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint—while Gwendolen felt herself painfully in the position of the young lady who professed to like potted sprats. “These are things I dare say I shall publish eventually: several friends have urged me to do so, and one doesn’t like to be obstinate. My Tasso, for example—I could have made it twice the size.” “I dote on Tasso,” said Gwendolen.