"I never pay the least attention to them," she answered, "except when they are hasty and misguided enough to write lies about me,--then I very naturally take the liberty to contradict those lies, either through my own statement or that of my lawyers. Apart from refusing to allow the public to be led into a false notion of my work and aims, I have no grudge whatever against the critics. They are generally very poor hard-working men, and have a frightful struggle to live. I have often, privately, done some of them a good turn without their knowledge. A publisher of mine sent me an MS. the other day by one of my deadliest enemies on the press, and stated that my opinion would decide its rejection or acceptance,--I read it through, and though it was not very brilliant work, it was good enough, so I praised it as warmly as I could, and urged its publication, with the stipulation that the author should never be told I had had the casting vote. It has just come out I see,--and I'm sure I hope it will succeed." Here she paused to gather a few deep damask roses, which she handed to Sibyl. "Yes,--critics are very badly, even cruelly paid,"--she went on musingly--"It is not to be expected that they should write eulogies of the successful author, while they continue unsuccessful,--such work could not be anything but gall and wormwood to them. I know the poor little wife of one of them,--and settled her dressmaker's bill for her because she was afraid to show it to her husband. The very week afterwards he slashed away at my last book in the most approved style in the paper on which he is employed, and got, I suppose, about a guinea for his trouble. Of course he didn't know about his little wife and her dunning dressmaker; and he never will know, because I have bound her over to secrecy." "But why do you do such things?" asked Sibyl astonished; "I would have let his wife get into the County Court for her bill, if I had been you!"