them sometimes,"--she continued,--"Whenever I get a bad review I name a pigeon,--it amuses me. That draggle-tailed one with the muddy feet is the 'Sketch,'--he is not at all a well-bred bird I must tell you!--that smart-looking dove with the purple breast is the 'Graphic,' and that bland old grey thing is the 'I. L. N.' short for 'Illustrated London News.' Those three white ones are respectively 'Daily Telegraph,' 'Morning Post,' and 'Standard.' Now see them all!" and taking a covered basket from a corner she began to scatter corn and peas and various grains in lavish quantities all over the court. For a moment we could scarcely see the sky, so thickly the birds flocked together, struggling, fighting, swooping downwards, and soaring upwards,--but the wingëd confusion soon gave place to something like order when they were all on the ground and busy, selecting their respective favourite foods from the different sorts provided for their choice. "You are indeed a sweet-natured philosopher"--said Lucio smiling, "if you can symbolize your adverse reviewers by a flock of doves!" She laughed merrily. "Well, it is a remedy against all irritation,"--she returned; "I used to worry a good deal over my work, and wonder why it was that the press people were so unnecessarily hard upon me, when they showed so much leniency and encouragement to far worse writers,--but after a little serious consideration, finding that critical opinion carried no sort of conviction whatever to the public, I determined to trouble no more about it,--except in the way of doves!" "In the way of doves, you feed your reviewers,"--I observed. "Exactly! And I suppose I help to feed them even as women and men!" she said--"They get something from their editors for 'slashing' my work,--and they probably make a little more out of selling their 'review copies.' So you see the dove-emblem holds good throughout. But you have not seen the 'Athenæum,'--oh, you _must_ see him!" With laughter still lurking in her blue eyes, she took us out of the pigeon-court, and led the way round to a sequestered and shady corner of the garden, where, in a large aviary-cage fitted up for its special convenience, sat a solemn white owl. The instant it perceived us, it became angry, and ruffling up its downy feathers, rolled its glistening yellow eyes vindictively and opened its beak. Two smaller owls sat in the background, pressed close together,--one grey, the other brown. "Cross old boy!" said Mavis, addressing the spiteful-looking creature in the sweetest of accents--"Haven't you found any mice to kill to-day? Oh, what wicked eyes!--what a snappy mouth!" Then turning to us, she went on--"Isn't he a lovely owl? Doesn't he look wise?--but as a matter of fact he's just as stupid as ever he can be. That is why I call him the 'Athenæum'! He looks so profound, you'd fancy he knows everything, but he really thinks of nothing but killing mice all the time,--which limits his intelligence considerably!"