“Bravo! bravissimo! hear him, hear him! print him, print him! hot-press from the author to the author, hot-press!” cried Churchill, and he laughed. Like one suddenly awakened from the trance of enthusiasm by the cold touch of ridicule, stood Beauclerc, brought down from heaven to earth, and by that horrid little laugh, not the heart’s laugh. “But my being ridiculous does not make my cause so, and that is a comfort.” “And another comfort you may have, my dear Granville,” said Lady Davenant, “that ridicule is not the test of truth; truth should be the test of ridicule.” “But where is the book?” continued Beauclerc. Helen gave it to him. “Now, Mr. Churchill,” said Beauclerc; “I am really anxious, I know you are such a good critic, will you show me these faults? blame as well as praise must always be valuable from those who themselves excel.” “You are too good,” said Churchill. “Will you then be good enough to point out the errors for me?” “Oh, by no means,” cried Churchill, “don’t note me, do not quote me, I am nobody, and I cannot give up my authorities.” “But the truth is all I want to get at,” said Beauclerc. “Let her rest, my dear sir, at the bottom of her well; there she is, and there she will be for ever and ever, and depend upon it none of our windlassing will ever bring her up.” “Such an author as this,” continued Beauclerc, “would have been so glad to have corrected any error.” “So every author tells you, but I never saw one of them who did not look blank at a list of errata--if you knew how little one is thanked for them!” “But you would be thanked now,” said Beauclerc:--“the faults in style, at least.” “Nay, I am no critic,” said Churchill, confident in his habits of literary detection; “but if you ask me,” said he, as he disdainfully flirted the leaves back and forward with a “There now!” and a “Here now!” “We should not call that good writing--you could not think this correct? I may be wrong, but I should not use this phrase. Hardly English that--colloquial, I think; and this awkward ablative absolute--never admitted now.” “Thank you,” said Beauclerc, “these faults are easily mended.” “Easily mended, say you? I say, better make a new one.” “WHO COULD?” said Beauclerc. “How many faults you see,” said Helen, “which I should never have perceived unless you had pointed them out, and I am sorry to know them now.” Smiling at Helen’s look of sincere mortification, in contrast at this moment with Mr. Churchill’s air of satisfied critical pride, Lady Davenant said,-- “Why sorry, my dear Helen? No human work can be perfect; Mr. Churchill may be proud of that strength of eye which in such a powerful light can count the spots. But whether it be the best use to make of his eyes, or the best use that can be made of the light, remains to be considered.” CHAPTER XV.