ywhere near Mudie's?"

"Looks more appreciative to have bought a copy. It will do for a
birthday present for someone."

On the other hand, the conversation may have been very different. My
hostess may have said:

"Oh, I _am_ glad he's coming. I have been longing to meet him for
years."

She may have bought my book on the day of publication, and be reading it
through for the second time. She may, by pure accident, have left it on
her favourite seat beneath the window. The knowledge that insincerity is
our universal garment has reduced all compliment to meaningless formula.
A lady one evening at a party drew me aside. The chief guest--a famous
writer--had just arrived.

"Tell me," she said, "I have so little time for reading, what has he
done?"

I was on the point of replying when an inveterate wag, who had overheard
her, interposed between us.

"'The Cloister and the Hearth,'" he told her, "and 'Adam Bede.'"

He happened to know the lady well. She has a good heart, but was ever
muddle-headed. She thanked that wag with a smile, and I heard her later
in the evening boring most evidently that literary lion with elongated
praise of the "Cloister and the Hearth" and "Adam Bede." They were among
the few books she had ever read, and talking about them came easily to
her. She told me afterwards that she had found that literary lion a
charming man, but--

"Well," she laughed, "he has got a good opinion of himself. He told me
he considered both books among the finest in the English language."

It is as well always to make a note of the author's name. Some people
never do--more particularly playgoers. A well-known dramatic author told
me he once took a couple of colonial friends to a play of his own. It
was after a little dinner at Kettner's; they suggested the theatre, and
he thought he would give them a treat. He did not mention to them that
he was the author, and they never looked at the programme. Their faces
as the play proceeded lengthened; it did not seem to be their school of
comedy. At the end of the first act they sprang to their feet.

"Let's chuck this rot," suggested one.

"Let's go to the Empire," suggested the other. The well-known dramatist
followed them out. He thinks the fault must have been with the dinner.

A young friend of mine--a man of good family--contracted a _mesalliance_:
that is, he married the daughter of a Canadian farmer, a frank, amiable
girl, bewitchingly pretty,