"Of course, of course," said Miss Guyon, and her eyes danced with mischievous glee; "who would for the world interfere with Mr. Mostyn's gaieties? We all know they are but gravities in disguise. He is the slave of the season only to be its satirist, the pet of society to requite its indulgence by his teachings as a philosopher and his dulcet lays as a poet. Who would lay a tax on time spent in the service of society like Mr. Mostyn's, studying character in a cotillion, piercing the thin disguises of intrigue at a picnic, and reading the female soul in the evening lounge on a balcony? Ah, Mr. Mostyn, what triflers are we all beside you, the _poètephilosophe_, not only _sous les toits_, but of our dinner- and toilet-tables!" Lady Henmarsh was listening, pleasure in her face. There was something under this lively talk, this seeming compliment; and Robert would have liked well to know what it was. It was something that amused Katharine, therefore interesting to him. "Come, Mr. Mostyn," she went on, "you might tell _me_--I am a friend, you know. When is the new novel coming out? And what and who is it to be about? Only intimate friends this time, or have outsiders any chance?" She paused for a reply, and an expression of candid curiosity was all her face betrayed. Mr. Mostyn did not look perfectly comfortable; a dawning doubt showed itself in his smooth features. It was only momentary, though. It cleared away, and he replied, "Really, Miss Guyon, you embarrass me. I was not prepared to find you so much interested in my humble performances. I shall not publish again, for some little time. I regard the writing of a poem or a novel as a serious undertaking, and I undertake it in a serious spirit. I wait for the inspiration, Miss Guyon; I wait until a favourable moment when my mind is attuned----" "And when you have got some very good models, Mr. Mostyn; isn't that so? Your acquaintance is so large, it must be quite delightful and not at all difficult. Don't be shocked, please, by my talking of such a little thing as difficulty in the case of such a grand thing as inspiration; but it must be so easy and pleasant just to sit down and put your friends in a book. People hardly expect it, do they? They let you see them as they are, and then that is charming; for you find out all about them, and they never suspect it; and all their circle recognise the portrait, and every one talks about it. I have quite a woman's curiosity about writers, you must know, Mr. Mostyn,--I quite admire and envy them,--and I should like to know all about them; and I have heard that even a totally worthless book will be read if it is very personal indeed. What a comfort that must be, Mr. Mostyn I--of course I mean to the persons who write worthless books; shouldn't you think so?"