The Countess of Dashleigh sat in her boudoir, surrounded by all the luxuries which art can devise or wealth procure. But she paid little attention to anything around her, for her thoughts were absorbed in her occupation,—to a young authoress a very delightful occupation,—that of revising the proof-sheets of her first romance. “Egeria” was now taking a flight above the columns of a periodical; she was about to present to the world a volume in violet and gold! How to give her ideas the richest setting, how to display her talent to most advantage, was now the one prevailing thought which occupied her mind from morning till night. Annabella was like a mother rejoicing over a first-born child; and she examined the rough proofs with the interest and delight which a young parent might feel in surveying the little elegancies of the wardrobe of her darling babe. “Egeria” smiled to herself as she imagined the various reviews of her work which would doubtless appear in the papers and periodicals of the day. She fancied what passages would be extracted, what characters praised; what might possibly be censured, what must be admired. In the midst of her enjoyment of this feast of imagination, she was interrupted by the entrance of the earl. Alas! that the presence of a husband should ever be felt unwelcome! “Annabella, my love, I have just received a letter, which I should be obliged by your answering for me. I am glad to find you with a pen in your hand.” “Presently, Reginald; I will answer it presently,” said the countess, a slight frown of impatience passing over her brow; “I am most exceedingly busy at present.” “What are you doing?” inquired the earl, who was not in the secret of his lady’s occupation, though aware that she devoted much time to her pen. “May I see?” he added, taking up one of the dirty proof-sheets which had just received Annabella’s corrections. “Are you to be my first critic?” said the countess playfully; “if so, I hope that you will be an indulgent one.” The earl looked for a few minutes a little embarrassed, as if a subject had been suddenly brought before him on which he had not had time to make up his mind. He then seated himself on the sofa, and twisting the paper about in his fingers as he addressed his wife without looking at her, he began in his somewhat formal style:—“It seems to me, Annabella, that authorship is not what is most exactly suitable for one who holds the position of a countess.” “Are countesses then supposed to be more stupid than other people?” asked Annabella. The earl made no direct reply to a question which appeared to him rather impertinent. He was desirous to avoid an argument, and rather to have recourse to persuasion. “You have so many other resources,” he began, “so many pleasures—” “Not one of them,—not all of them together to be compared to this!” exclaimed Annabella with animation. “I value the smallest bay-leaf from Parnassus more than the strawberry-leaves on a ducal coronet!”