The smile died away and for an instant Ellaline's brow went into black for it. She accepted an ice from Turple the magnificent, but took her leave shortly afterwards, Lillie promising to write to her. "Well?" said the President when she was left alone with the Honorary Trier. That functionary looked dubious. "Up till the very last she seemed single-hearted in her zeal. Then she asked whether _I_ was a literary man. You know her story. What do you conclude?" "I can hardly come to a conclusion. Do you think there is still a danger of her marrying to get someone to advertise her?" "I think it depends on _The Cherub_. If _The Cherub_ is born and lives, it will be a more effectual advertising medium than even a husband, and may replace him. A paper of your own can puff you rather better than a husband of your own, it has a larger circulation and more opportunities. An authoress-editress, her worth is far above rubies! Her correspondents praise her in the gates and her staff shall rise up and call her blessed. It may well be that she will arrive at that stage at which a husband is an incubus and marriage a manacle. In that day the honor of the Club will be safe in her hands." "What do you suggest then?" said Lillie anxiously. "That you wait till she is delivered of _The Cherub_ before deciding." "Very well," she replied resignedly. "Only I hope we shall be able to admit her. Her conception of the use of man is so sublime!" Lord Silverdale smiled. "Ah, if the truth were known," he said, "I daresay it would be that pretty women regard man merely as a beast of draught and burden, a creature to draw their checks and carry their cloaks." Lillie answered, "And men look on pretty women either as home pets or as drawing-room decorations." Silverdale said further, "I do not look on you as either." To which, Lillie, "Why do you say such obvious things? It is unworthy of you. Have you anything worthy of you in your pocket to-day?" "Nothing of your hearing. Just a little poem about another Cherub." AN ANCIENT PASSION. Mine is no passion of to-day, Upblazing like a rocket, To-morrow doomed to die away And leave you out of pocket. Nor is she one who snared my love By just the woman's graces: I loved her when, a sucking dove, She cooed and made grimaces. And when the pretty darling cried, I often stooped and kissed her, Though cold and faint her lips replied, As though she were my sister. I loved her long but loved her still When she discarded long-clothes, Yet here if she had had her will Would this romantic song close. For, though we wandered hand in hand, Companions close and chronic, She always made me understand _Her_ motives were Platonic. She said me "Nay" with merry mien, Not weeping like the cayman, When she was Mab, the Fairy Queen, And I Tom King, highwayman.