“Why, we certainly should not have come here for pleasure,” returned Frere shortly; then catching Rose’s look of dismay he continued, “I mean to say we should not have thought of taking up your valuable time” (here he gave Rose a confidential nudge with his elbow to indicate that he spoke ironically), “unless we had a legitimate object in doing so.” In answer to this the Autocrat merely inclined his head, and revealed a highly respectable set of teeth; so Frere resumed-- “This young lady, Miss Arundel, has determined, by the advice of Mr. Bracy and--ahem!--myself, to make you the first offer of a very valuable work which she has written--a tale of a very unusual description, peculiarly suited, as I consider, to the present state of society, pointing out certain social evils, and showing how a more consistent adherence to the precepts of Christianity would prove the only effectual remedy.” At these last words Mr. Nonpareil, who, having apparently lapsed into a state of torpor, had listened with a face as immovable as if it had been cast in bronze, suddenly pricked up his ears and condescended to exist again. “If I understand you, Mr.----Frere,” suggested that gentleman--“Mr. Frere,” continued Nonpareil, “if I comprehend your meaning, sir, this lady wishes to dispose of the copyright of a religious novel?” “That’s it,” replied Frere. “Then my answer must mainly depend on the exact height of the principles.” “On the how much?” inquired Frere, considerably mystified. “On the exact height of the principles, sir,” returned Mr. Nonpareil with dignity. “I possess a regular scale, sir, which I have had worked out minutely, proceeding from the broad outlines of Christianity to the most delicate shades of doctrine, and descending even to the smallest points of the canon law. Such an ecclesiological table is most important in our line. Public opinion, sir, fluctuates in such matters, just like the funds, up one week, down the next, up again the next. Now I’ll just give you an instance. There was a little work we published, I dare say you’ve seen it, ‘Ambrosius; or, The Curate Confessed.’ It was thought rather a heavy book when it first came out. The public would not read it; the trade did not like it; it hung on hand, and I expected to lose from £200 to £300 upon it. Well, sir, the Surplice question began to be agitated. Fortunately, the author had made Ambrosius preach in a white gown. I immediately advertised it freely, the thing took, we sold 3000 copies in a fortnight, and instead of losing £300 I made £600. But that’s not all, sir. Shortly after that the Rev. Clerestory Lectern, one of the very tip-top ones, went to Rome, and took his three curates, a serious butler, and the family apothecary with him. This made a great sensation, convulsed the public mind fearfully, and brought on a general attack of the ultra-protestant epidemic. Accordingly, I sent for the author of ‘Ambrosius,’ offered him terms he was only too glad to jump