"Would you?" and Mavis smiled gravely--"Well, I could not. You know Who it was that said 'Bless them that curse you, and do good to them that hate you'? Besides, the poor little woman was frightened to death at her own expenditure. It is pitiful, you know, to see the helpless agonies of people who _will_ live beyond their incomes,--they suffer much more than the beggars in the street who make frequently more than a pound a day by merely whining and snivelling. The critics are much more in evil case than the beggars--few of them make even a pound a day, and of course they regard as their natural enemies the authors who make thirty to fifty pounds a week. I assure you I am very sorry for critics all round,--they are the least-regarded and worst-rewarded of all the literary community. And I never bother myself at all about what they say of me, except as I before observed, when in their haste they tell lies,--then of course it becomes necessary for me to state the truth in simple self-defence as well as by way of duty to my public. But as a rule I hand over all my press-notices to Tricksy there,"--indicating the minute Yorkshire terrier who followed closely at the edge of her white gown,--"and he tears them to indistinguishable shreds in about three minutes!" She laughed merrily, and Sibyl smiled, watching her with the same wonder and admiration that had been expressed in her looks more or less since the beginning of our interview with this light-hearted possessor of literary fame. We were now walking towards the gate, preparatory to taking our departure. "May I come and talk to you sometimes?" my wife said suddenly, in her prettiest and most pleading voice--"It would be such a privilege!" "You can come whenever you like in the afternoons,"--replied Mavis readily--"The mornings belong to a goddess more dominant even than Beauty;--Work!" "You never work at night?" I asked. "Indeed no! I never turn the ordinances of Nature upside down, as I am sure I should get the worst of it if I made such an attempt. The night is for sleep--and I use it thankfully for that blessed purpose." "Some authors can only write at night though," I said. "Then you may be sure they only produce blurred pictures and indistinct characterization," said Mavis--"Some I know there are, who invite inspiration through gin or opium, as well as through the midnight influences, but I do not believe in such methods. Morning, and a freshly rested brain are required for literary labour,--that is, if one wants to write a book that will last for more than one 'season.'" She accompanied us to the gate and stood under the porch, her big dog beside her, and the roses waving high over her head. "At any rate work agrees with you,"--said Sibyl fixing upon her a long, intent, almost envious gaze--"You look perfectly happy." "I _am_ perfectly happy,"--she answered, smiling--"I have nothing in all the world to wish for, except that I may die as peacefully as I have lived."