She owned
to having heard the name of Osric Dane; but that--incredible as it
appeared--was the extent of her acquaintance with the celebrated
novelist. The ladies could not conceal their surprise; but Mrs.
Ballinger, whose pride in the club made her wish to put even Mrs. Roby
in the best possible light, gently insinuated that, though she had not
had time to acquaint herself with "The Wings of Death," she must at
least be familiar with its equally remarkable predecessor, "The Supreme
Instant."

Mrs. Roby wrinkled her sunny brows in a conscientious effort of memory,
as a result of which she recalled that, oh, yes, she _had_ seen the book
at her brother's, when she was staying with him in Brazil, and had even
carried it off to read one day on a boating party; but they had all
got to shying things at each other in the boat, and the book had gone
overboard, so she had never had the chance--

The picture evoked by this anecdote did not increase Mrs. Roby's credit
with the club, and there was a painful pause, which was broken by Mrs.
Plinth's remarking:

"I can understand that, with all your other pursuits, you should not
find much time for reading; but I should have thought you might at least
have _got up_ 'The Wings of Death' before Osric Dane's arrival."

Mrs. Roby took this rebuke good-humouredly. She had meant, she owned,
to glance through the book; but she had been so absorbed in a novel of
Trollope's that--

"No one reads Trollope now," Mrs. Ballinger interrupted.

Mrs. Roby looked pained. "I'm only just beginning," she confessed.

"And does he interest you?" Mrs. Plinth enquired.

"He amuses me."

"Amusement," said Mrs. Plinth, "is hardly what I look for in my choice
of books."

"Oh, certainly, 'The Wings of Death' is not amusing," ventured Mrs.
Leveret, whose manner of putting forth an opinion was like that of an
obliging salesman with a variety of other styles to submit if his first
selection does not suit.

"Was it _meant_ to be?" enquired Mrs. Plinth, who was fond of asking
questions that she permitted no one but herself to answer. "Assuredly
not."

"Assuredly not--that is what I was going to say," assented Mrs. Leveret,
hastily rolling up her opinion and reaching for another. "It was meant
to--to elevate."

Miss Van Vluyck adjusted her spectacles as though they were the black
cap of condemnation. "I hardly see," she interposed, "how a book steeped
in the bitterest pessimism can be said to elevat