And here I bade him good afternoon, and took my way to Lionel's chambers, murmuring as I went-- "I want to know a butcher paints." CHAPTER XVI MR. DABNEY OF _THE BALANCE_ MEETS MORE THAN HIS MATCH, AND FINDS A RESCUER The breakfast table, which is the Wynnes' Upper House, setting the seal, or otherwise, upon schemes that have been comparatively idly adumbrated at other times and in other places, having decided that Grandmamma, who had leanings towards literary men, would like to meet an author, it was agreed that I should bring Mr. Dabney to dinner on Saturday. "Can't we get any one better than that?" Lionel asked. "Mr. Dabney is very nice," said Naomi. "I daresay," said Lionel; "but he's not known. What's he written?" "He's an editor," I explained. "His paper is _The Balance_, a very courageous influential organ. Frank writes for it." "Oh yes," said Lionel, "but Grandmamma isn't going to get excited over that. What's an editor? The world's full of them. They've got one or two at Ludlow, I'll bet. What Grandmamma wants to meet is a fellow who writes books, novels. Can't you get hold of one of them? What about Jacobs? I shouldn't mind meeting him myself." It was pointed out that we did not know Mr. Jacobs. "Then we ought to," said Lionel. "What's the good of an editor anyway? Every paper seems to have a dozen of them. How would you like me to bring Plum Warner?--he's written loads of books." Mr. Dabney, however, remained our only lion. When the evening arrived, it looked as though Grandmamma and he were going to hit it off perfectly, and I began to feel quite happy about my introduction of this firebrand into the household. "I hear that you are a writer," Grandmamma began, very graciously. "I always like literary company. Years ago I met both Mr. Dickens and Mr. Thackeray." I saw the lid of Lionel's left eye droop as he glanced at Naomi. Mrs. Wynne, I gathered, was employing a favourite opening. Mr. Dabney expressed interest. "There are no books like theirs now," Grandmamma continued. "I don't know what kind of books you write, but there are no books like those of Mr. Dickens and Mr. Thackeray." Mr. Dabney began to say something. "Personally," Grandmamma hurried on, "I prefer those of Mr. Dickens, but that perhaps is because me dear fawther used to read them to us aloud. He was a beautiful reader. There is no reading aloud to-day, Mr. Dabney; and, I fear, very little home life." Here Grandmamma made a false move, and let her companion in, for he could never resist a comparison of the present and the past, to the detriment of the present.