Some portion of Jane Austen’s ability for portraying character in conversation is discernible in at least one of her too numerous successors in the craft. The authoress of _Mademoiselle Ixe_ and of _Cecilia de Noël_ has already proven to the world how deft and skilful is her manipulation of that difficult medium, drawing-room gossip. It would be unjust and absurd to compare her stories, slight and unsubstantial as pencil sketches, with the finished masterpieces of English fiction; but there are touches in these modern tales which convince even a casual reader of splendid possibilities ahead. The setting of _Mademoiselle Ixe_ is so fine, the lightly drawn English people who surround the mysterious governess and her still more mysterious victim are so real, that we cease to ask ourselves obtrusive questions concerning the purpose and utility of the crime. Better still are some of the scenes in _Cecilia de Noël_, where Lady Atherley’s serene and imperturbable good sense tempers the atmosphere, and gives exactly the proper effect to her husband’s rather long-winded eloquence, to Mrs. Mostyn’s amiable and cruel evangelism, and to Mrs. Molyneux’s amusing eccentricities. All these characters have individuality of their own, and all reveal themselves through the intricacies of conversation, while occasionally there is a felicitous touch worthy of Jane Austen’s hand; as when Lady Atherley listens tranquilly to Mrs. Mostyn’s tirade against the ritualistic curate, and evolves from it the one judicious conclusion that he is evidently an Austyn of Temple Leigh, and that it would be desirable to ask him to dinner. The real drawback to Lanoe Falconer’s art is, not the brevity of her work, but the fact that her people cannot develop on purely natural lines, because they are hampered by the terrible necessity of illustrating a moral; and even in their most unguarded moments the task assigned them is never wholly laid aside. It is seldom that a good tract is a good story too, and all the novelist’s skill is powerless to impart a vivid semblance of truth to characters who have to “talk up” to a given subject, and teach a given lesson. The inartistic treatment of material results, curiously enough, in weakening our sense of reality; yet if the authoress of _Cecilia de Noël_ would consent, for a few short years, to abandon social and spiritual problems, to concern herself as little with Nihilism as with eternal punishment, but to be content, as Jane Austen was content, with telling a story, perhaps that story might be no unworthy successor of those matchless tales which are our refuge and solace in these dark days of ethical and unorthodox fiction.