He settled himself comfortably on the seat, lit his pipe, and began to read: “_A Bad Un to Beat:_ a Novel of Sporting Life, by the Honorable Mrs. Scudamore Runnymede, author of _Yoicks, With the Mudshire Pack, The Sportleigh Stables_, etc., etc., 3 vols. At all Libraries.” The _Press_, it seemed, pronounced this to be “a charming book. Mrs. Runnymede has wit and humor enough to furnish forth half-a-dozen ordinary sporting novels.” “Told with the sparkle and vivacity of a past-mistress in the art of novel writing,” said the _Review_; while Miranda, of _Smart Society_, positively bubbled with enthusiasm. “You must forgive me, Aminta,” wrote this young person, “if I have not sent the description I promised of Madame Lulu’s new creations and others of that ilk. I must a tale unfold; Tom came in yesterday and began to rave about the Honorable Mrs. Scudamore Runnymede’s last novel, _A Bad Un to Beat_. He says all the Smart Set are talking of it, and it seems the police have to regulate the crowd at Mudie’s. You know I read everything Mrs. Runnymede writes, so I set out Miggs directly to beg, borrow or steal a copy, and I confess I burnt the midnight oil before I laid it down. Now, mind you get it, you will find it so awfully _chic_.” Nearly all the novelists on Messrs. Beit’s list were ladies, their works all ran to three volumes, and all of them pleased the _Press_, the _Review_, and Miranda of _Smart Society_. One of these books, _Millicent’s Marriage_, by Sarah Pocklington Sanders, was pronounced fit to lie on the school-room table, on the drawing-room bookshelf, or beneath the pillow of the most gently nurtured of our daughters. “This,” the reviewer went on, “is high praise, especially in these days when we are deafened by the loud-voiced clamor of self-styled ‘artists.’ We would warn the young men who prate so persistently of style and literature, construction and prose harmonies, that we believe the English reading public will have none of them. Harmless amusement, a gentle flow of domestic interest, a faithful reproduction of the open and manly life of the hunting field, pictures of innocent and healthy English girlhood such as Miss Sanders here affords us; these are the topics that will always find a welcome in our homes, which remain bolted and barred against the abandoned artist and the scrofulous stylist.”