Fetherel, who was not in the habit of reading aloud, paused with a gasp, and the Bishop glanced sharply at his niece, who kept her gaze fixed on the tea-cup she had not yet succeeded in transferring to his hand.--"'Of the sewer,'" her husband resumed; "'but his wonder is proportionately great when he lights on a novel as sweetly inoffensive as Paula Fetherel's "Fast and Loose." Mrs. Fetherel is, we believe, a new hand at fiction, and her work reveals frequent traces of inexperience; but these are more than atoned for by her pure, fresh view of life and her altogether unfashionable regard for the reader's moral susceptibilities. Let no one be induced by its distinctly misleading title to forego the enjoyment of this pleasant picture of domestic life, which, in spite of a total lack of force in character-drawing and of consecutiveness in incident, may be described as a distinctly pretty story.'" III It was several weeks later that Mrs. Clinch once more brought the plebeian aroma of heated tram-cars and muddy street-crossings into the violet-scented atmosphere of her cousin's drawing-room. "Well," she said, tossing a damp bundle of proof into the corner of a silk-cushioned bergere, "I've read it at last and I'm not so awfully shocked!" Mrs. Fetherel, who sat near the fire with her head propped on a languid hand, looked up without speaking. "Mercy, Paula," said her visitor, "you're ill." Mrs. Fetherel shook her head. "I was never better," she said, mournfully. "Then may I help myself to tea? Thanks." Mrs. Clinch carefully removed her mended glove before taking a buttered tea-cake; then she glanced again at her cousin. "It's not what I said just now--?" she ventured. "Just now?" "About 'Fast and Loose'? I came to talk it over." Mrs. Fetherel sprang to her feet. "I never," she cried dramatically, "want to hear it mentioned again!" "Paula!" exclaimed Mrs. Clinch, setting down her cup. Mrs. Fetherel slowly turned on her an eye brimming with the incommunicable; then, dropping into her seat again, she added, with a tragic laugh, "There's nothing left to say." "Nothing--?" faltered Mrs. Clinch, longing for another tea-cake, but feeling the inappropriateness of the impulse in an atmosphere so charged with the portentous. "Do you mean that everything _has_ been said?" She looked tentatively at her cousin. "Haven't they been nice?" "They've been odious--odious--" Mrs. Fetherel burst out, with an ineffectual clutch at her handkerchief. "It's been perfectly intolerable!" Mrs. Clinch, philosophically resigning herself to the propriety of taking no more tea, crossed over to her cousin and laid a sympathizing hand on that lady's agitated shoulder. "It _is_ a bore at first," she conceded; "but you'll be surprised to see how soon one gets used to it." "I shall--never--get--used to it--" Mrs. Fetherel brokenly declared. "Have they been so very nasty--all of them?" "Every one of them!" the novelist sobbed.