"--'Floy'! humph. I suppose I shan't take up a newspaper now without getting a dose about her. I dare say that spiteful young Dana will call here again just to rile me up by praising her. What a fool I was to get taken in so about that book. But how should I know it was hers? I should as soon have thought of her turning out Mrs. Bonaparte, as an authoress. Authoress! Humph! Wonder how the heels of her stockings look? S'pose she wears silk ones now, and French shoes; she was always as proud as Lucifer of her foot. "--Well, I must say, (as long as there's nobody here to hear me,) that she _beats all_. Humph! She'll collapse, though; there's no doubt of _that_. I've heard of balloons that alighted in mud-puddles." CHAPTER LXXXVII. "Good morning, Mr. Ellet!" said Mr. Jones, making an attempt at a bow, which the stiffness of his shirt-collar rendered entirely abortive; "how d'ye do?" "Oh, how are you, Mr. Jones? I was just looking over the Household Messenger here, reading my daughter 'Floy's' pieces, and thinking what a great thing it is for a child to have a good father. 'Floy' was carefully brought up and instructed, and this, you see, is the result. I have been reading several of her pieces to a clergyman, who was in here just now, I keep them on hand in my pocket-book, to exhibit as a proof of what early parental education and guidance may do in developing latent talent, and giving the mind a right direction." "I was not aware 'Floy' _was_ your daughter," replied Mr. Jones; "do you know what time she commenced writing? what was the title of her first article and what was her remuneration?" "Sir?" said Mr. Ellet, wishing to gain a little time, and looking very confused. "Perhaps I should not ask such questions," said the innocent Mr. Jones, mistaking the cause of Mr. Ellet's hesitation; "but I felt a little curiosity to know something of her early progress. What a strong desire you must have felt for her ultimate success; and how much your influence and sympathy must have assisted her. Do you know whether her remuneration at the commencement of her career as a writer, was above the ordinary average of pay?" "Yes--no--really, Mr. Jones, I will not venture to say, lest I should make a mistake; my memory is apt to be so treacherous." "She wrote merely for amusement, I suppose; there could be no _necessity_ in _your_ daughter's case," said the blundering Mr. Jones. "Certainly not," replied Mr. Ellet. "It is astonishing how she can write so feelingly about the poor," said Mr. Jones; "it is so seldom that an author succeeds in depicting truthfully those scenes for which he draws solely upon the imagination." "My daughter, 'Floy,' has a very vivid imagination," replied Mr. Ellet, nervously. "Women generally have, I believe; they are said to excel our sex in word-painting."