It was a bright and lovely afternoon in the midst of autumn. The saloons of Waterloo Palace were thrown open for the admission of all the rank and fashion of Verdopolis. The doors of the great library were likewise unfolded, and there a knot of _bel-esprits_, the very flower of Africa’s geniuses, had gathered round a large open bow-window through which might be seen the extensive pleasure-grounds where groups of the brighter children of fashion roamed idly about or reposed under the shade of sequestered bowers. Of course my brother and Lady Zenobia Ellrington formed the nucleus round which this literary party had assembled. While they were conversing Lord Lofty entered and took his station near them. He could not actually join their party, because, though a man of considerable talent, he had never written a book, painted a picture, or moulded a statue; and it is an understood regulation of this chosen band that none but genuine authors and artists shall have the privilege of entering into their high and exclusive society. While he listened to the noble sentiment, the brilliant wit, the exhaustless knowledge, and the varied information which, clothed in the purest language and uttered in the soft subdued tones which perfect refinement dictates, formed a conversazione of such fascinating brilliancy as he had never heard before, undefined longings arose in his heart to become a more immediate partaker of the feast of reason and the flow of soul he witnessed. At this moment the Marchioness of Douro, who, seated on a low footstool at the feet of her husband and Lady Ellrington, had been gazing up at them with her large blue eyes full of wonder and delight, suddenly exclaimed in her usual artless manner: ‘I wish I had written a book!’ ‘And so do I,’ was the response that immediately burst from Lofty’s lips. The marquis smiled at the characteristic simplicity of Marian’s aspiration; but he turned with a more serious air to Lofty, and said: ‘Well, and what is there to hinder you from writing as many books as you like?’ ‘Nothing, my lord, except that I have not the genius.’ ‘Pshaw! nonsense! you can do anything you choose!’ ‘Are you in earnest, Douro?’ ‘In earnest? Yes, that I am: I never was more so in my life.’ ‘Well, then, I really do think I’ll turn author.’ ‘That’s right, Fred. I’ll breakfast with you to-morrow morning, and we’ll talk the matter over at our leisure.’ Next day Arthur was punctual to his appointment. On entering the breakfast-room he found Lord Frederic seated in a morning gown of green and silver brocade with slippers to correspond, and on the table beside him lay a quire of paper and an inkstand of elaborate workmanship with golden pens, etc. The smile with which he viewed these preparations would have undeceived any other than Lofty, whose faculties were rendered, however, so obtuse by conceit that he conceived it to be merely a token of approbation.