"Nor anyone else I should hope,"--said Lord Elton with a laugh--"except the fellows who write them, ha--ha--ha! I call it damned impertinence--excuse the word--on the part of a newspaper hack to presume to teach _me_ what I ought to read, or what I ought to appreciate. I'm quite capable of forming my own judgment on any book that ever was written. But I avoid all the confounded 'new' poets,--avoid 'em like poison, sir--ha--ha! Anything but a 'new' poet; the old ones are good enough for me! Why sir, these reviewers who give themselves such airs with a pennorth of ink and a pen, are mostly half-grown half-educated boys who for a couple of guineas a week undertake to tell the public what _they_ think of such and such a book, as if anyone cared a jot about their green opinions! Ridiculous--quite ridiculous!--what do they take the public for I wonder! Editors of responsible journals ought to know better than to employ such young coxcombs just because they can get them cheap----" At this juncture the butler came up behind his master's chair and whispered a few words. The Earl's brow clouded,--then he addressed his sister-in-law,-- "Charlotte, Lady Elton sends word that she will come into the drawing-room to-night. Perhaps you had better go and see that she is made comfortable." And, as Miss Charlotte rose, he turned to us saying--"My wife is seldom well enough to see visitors, but this evening she feels inclined for a little change and distraction from the monotony of her sick-room. It will be very kind of you two gentlemen to entertain her,--she cannot speak much, but her hearing and sight are excellent, and she takes great interest in all that is going on. Dear dear me!" and he heaved a short troubled sigh--"She used to be one of the brightest of women!" "The sweet Countess!" murmured Miss Chesney with patronizing tenderness--"She is quite lovely still!" Lady Sibyl glanced at her with a sudden haughty frown which showed me plainly what a rebellious temper the young beauty held in control; and I fell straightway more in love,--according to _my_ idea of love,--than ever. I confess I like a woman to have a certain amount of temper. I cannot endure your preternaturally amiable female who can find nothing in all the length or breadth of the globe to move her to any other expression than a fatuous smile. I love to see the danger-flash in bright eyes,--the delicate quiver of pride in the lines of a lovely mouth, and the warm flush of indignation on fair cheeks. It all suggests spirit, and untamed will; and rouses in a man the love of mastery that is born in his nature, urging him to conquer and subdue that which seems unconquerable. And all the desire of such conquest was strong within me, when at the close of dinner I rose and held the door open for the ladies to pass out of the room. As the fair Sibyl went, the violets she wore at her bosom dropped. I picked them up and made my first move. "May I keep these?" I said in a low tone.