"Bosh! That view is as extinct as the post-chaise and the packet-ship--it belongs to the time when people read books. Nobody does that now; the reviewer was the first to set the example, and the public were only too thankful to follow it. At first they read the reviews; now they read only the publishers' extracts from them. Even these are rapidly being replaced by paragraphs borrowed from the vocabulary of commerce. I often have to look twice before I am sure if I am reading a department-store advertisement or the announcement of a new batch of literature. The publishers will soon be having their 'fall and spring openings' and their 'special importations for Horse-Show Week.' But the Bishop is right, of course--nothing helps a book like a rousing attack on its morals; and as the publishers can't exactly proclaim the impropriety of their own wares, the task has to be left to the press or the pulpit." "The pulpit--?" Mrs. Fetherel mused. "Why, yes--look at those two novels in England last year--" Mrs. Fetherel shook her head hopelessly. "There is so much more interest in literature in England than here." "Well, we've got to make the supply create the demand. The Bishop could run your novel up into the hundred thousands in no time." "But if he can't make his own sell--?" "My dear, a man can't very well preach against his own writings!" Mrs. Clinch rose and picked up her proofs. "I'm awfully sorry for you, Paula dear," she concluded, "but I can't help being thankful that there's no demand for pessimism in the field of natural history. Fancy having to write 'The Fall of a Sparrow,' or 'How the Plants Misbehave!'" IV Mrs. Fetherel, driving up to the Grand Central Station one morning about five months later, caught sight of the distinguished novelist, Archer Hynes, hurrying into the waiting-room ahead of her. Hynes, on his side, recognizing her brougham, turned back to greet her as the footman opened the carriage-door. "My dear colleague! Is it possible that we are traveling together?" Mrs. Fetherel blushed with pleasure. Hynes had given her two columns of praise in the Sunday "Meteor," and she had not yet learned to disguise her gratitude. "I am going to Ossining," she said, smilingly. "So am I. Why, this is almost as good as an elopement." "And it will end where elopements ought to--in church." "In church? You're not going to Ossining to go to church?" "Why not? There's a special ceremony in the cathedral--the chantry window is to be unveiled." "The chantry window? How picturesque! What _is_ a chantry? And why do you want to see it unveiled? Are you after copy--doing something in the Huysmans manner? 'La Cathedrale,' eh?" "Oh, no." Mrs. Fetherel hesitated. "I'm going simply to please my uncle," she said, at last. "Your uncle?" "The Bishop, you know." She smiled.