The conversation, appallingly immoral as it was, yet seemed to interest the good lady, for she drew nearer and formed a chorus to the very modern discussion that ensued between the poet and Egidia and her niece, of which London and London literary society was the theme. The epigrams that were flying about she visibly and audibly pooh-poohed. “Give me Newcastle!” she murmured at intervals, and “You, a mere lad, too!” was elicited from her by any world-weary extravagance of the poet’s. He was in self-defence; driven to incidentally mention his age--quite a respectable age, as it appeared. Mrs. Elles was not to be outdone-- “I am twenty-six,” he remarked, with an air of reluctant candour. “And a very good age to stop at!” observed her aunt, with intention. The novelist looked with compassion on this poor woman who, like Widrington, fought the battle of pose and society, at such frightful odds. The poet presently drifted in her direction and they held a short but epoch-making--as regarded Mrs. Elles--conversation. “Mrs. Poynder is to me just like an upas-tree,” he confided to Egidia, wringing his hands together. “In her shadow, any poetical idea would wither and die!” “There is, indeed, a good deal of shadow!” remarked Egidia, alluding to Mrs. Poynder’s truly majestic proportions. “She is a handsome woman in her way!” “Yes,” he replied wearily, “plenty of presence, and all of it bad, as they said of George III. But seriously, you know, she leads our dear friend a sad life. She contradicts her in everything, and thwarts every instinct of culture. If Mrs. Elles had not plenty of pluck, she would have given in long ago. And her husband!”--he held up his hands. The poet’s indiscretions bore fruit in a hearty invitation from Egidia to Mrs. Elles, to visit her often at the house where she was staying in Newcastle. “Brave little woman! I will try and cheer her up a bit!” she thought, as she left the house. The little party broke up soon after, and Mrs. Elles was left alone with her aunt, who, as the door closed on the last guest, opened her lips and gave, uncalled for, her opinions of the guest. “That’s a real nice woman!” she said, “that littry friend of yours; I approve of her. It’s a good thing I didn’t take your advice, Fibby, and go trapesing up to Jesmond, this afternoon, to call on Miss Drummond. Why, the girl was here. And such a crowd, too. You said there wouldn’t be anybody here to-day!” “Did I? One never knows,” replied her niece negligently, sauntering up to the piano, and opening it. “I’ll be bound you knew well enough, Fibby. Wanted to be rid of the old woman, eh? Well, I’m glad I defeated your little plans, and saw your friend, who seemed a sensible sort of woman, not the flyabastic sort you generally get here. Pity but she’d seen Mortimer!” “Do you think Mortimer would have impressed her?” asked his wife, bitterly.