"Yes!" cried Minnie, in a state of excitement, seeing a hansom rattle round the corner and pull up before the door, "he's in a cab." "Oh, indeed, couldn't walk I suppose," grumbled Miss Corbin grimly, "better for his pocket and his liver if he did. Hand me that last volume of his rubbish, Minnie, I've got a few words to say about it." Minnie obediently did as she was told and Aunt Jelly took the heavy book on her knee, while the door was flung open by the butler, who announced in his usual pompous voice: "Mr. Eustace Gartney." "How do you do, Aunt Jelly?" said Eustace, walking across to the old lady as if he had only parted with her the day before, "you don't look a day older." "Humph! I'm sorry I can't return the compliment" replied Miss Corbin, presenting her withered cheek to be saluted. "Arabia hasn't done you much good, at all events." "You're as candid as ever, I see," said Gartney carelessly, turning to Minnie. "I hope you are well, Miss Pelch." "Oh quite, thank you, dear Mr. Gartney," answered Minnie, in a state of fluttering excitement. "I'm so delighted to see you back." "So kind of you," murmured Eustace, taking a seat in the chair Minnie pushed forward for him. "Well, Aunt Jelly, and how has the world been using you?" "The same as I've been using it," retorted Miss Jelly epigrammatically. "I keep the world at its distance." "Like oil paintings. They always look best at a distance, you know." "Don't talk books to me," said the old lady, "I've had quite enough of your smart sayings in this," touching the volume on her lap. "So I see! I told my publishers to send you a copy. I hope you like it." "I do very, very much," cried Minnie clasping her hands, "it's simply too lovely for anything." "The critics don't think so," said Aunt Jelly spitefully. "And I suppose you agree with the critics," replied Eustace. "Did you hear me say so?" demanded his aunt fiercely. "No but----" "Then don't cry out till you are hurt. Take a glass of wine--Minnie, the wine." Miss Pelch poured out the wine with trembling hand, so excited she was at the presence of the great author, and Eustace, knowing his aunt's determination on the subject of port, drank it meekly although it was a wine he hated. "The book," said Miss Corbin, after a pause, "is not at all bad. I daresay there are a good many lies in it, still they're decently told lies. You've improved this time, Eustace." "Thank you, my dear aunt, I'm glad to have your good opinion, but the critics----" "Critics," snorted Aunt Jelly scornfully, "do you mean those idiots that scribble for the papers and who would abuse their parents for two pence three farthings? Pooh! I don't call those critics. In the palmy days of the _Quarterly Review_ there were decent reviewers, but now--rubbish! they write nothing but drivel, though to be sure it's drivel they criticise. I'm not talking about your book, Eustace, my dear. It's good!--very good, and I wouldn't say so if I didn't think so."