"But you will admit, Mrs. Elgar, that my mode of fiction has as much to say for itself as that which you prefer?" "In asking for one admission you take for granted another. That is a little confusing." It was made sufficiently so to Mr. Bickerdike. He thrust out his long legs, and exclaimed: "I should be grateful to you if you would tell me what your view of the question really is--I mean, of the question at issue between the two schools of fiction." "But will you first make clear to me the characteristics of the school you represent?" "It would take a long time to do that satisfactorily. I proceed on the assumption that fiction is poetry, and that poetry deals only with the noble and the pure." "Yes," said Cecily, as he paused for a moment, "I see that it would take too long. You must deal with so many prejudices--such, for example, as that which supposes 'King Lear' and 'Othello' to be poems." Mr. Bickerdike began a reply, but it was too late; Mrs. Lessingham had approached with some one else who wished to be presented to Mrs. Elgar, and the novelist could only bite his lips as he moved away to find a more reverent listener. It was not often that Cecily trifled in this way. As a rule, her manner of speech was direct and earnest. She had a very uncommon habit of telling the truth whenever it was possible; rather than utter smooth falsehoods, she would keep silence, and sometimes when to do so was to run much danger of giving offence. Beautiful women have very different ways of using the privilege their charm assures them; Cecily chose to make it a protection of her integrity. She was much criticized by acquaintances of her own sex. Some held her presumptuous, conceited, spoilt by adulation; some accused her of bad taste and blue-stockingism; some declared that she had no object but to win men's admiration and outshine women. Without a thought of such comments, she behaved as was natural to her. Where she felt her superiority, she made no pretence of appearing femininely humble. Yet persons like Mrs. Delph, who kept themselves in shadow and spoke only with simple kindness, knew well how unassuming Cecily was, and with what deference she spoke when good feeling dictated it. Or again, there was her manner with the people who, by the very respect with which they inspired her, gave her encouragement to speak without false restraint; such as Mr. Bird, the art critic, a grizzle-headed man with whom she sat for a quarter of an hour this evening, looking her very brightest and talking in her happiest vein, yet showing all the time her gratitude for what she learnt from his conversation. It was nearly twelve o'clock when Mrs. Travis, who had made one or two careless efforts to draw near to Cecily, succeeded in speaking a word aside with her. "I hope you didn't go to see me yesterday? I left home in the morning, and am staying with friends at Hampstead, not far from you." "For long?"