et the light-hearted reader be deterred by the slow
pace of Volume One; but stick to it, and avoid skipping. A selfish
mean cuss is the "hero," so to style him; and personally, the Baron
would consider him in Society as a first-class artistic bore. The
character is drawn with great skill, as are they all. The description
of _Mrs. Crookendon's_ after-dinner party is as life-like as if it
were a well-staged scene in a well-written and well-cast Drama.

"I have been dipping into _Country House Sketches_, by C.C. RHYS,"
says the Baron, "and have come to the conclusion that if the author,
youthful I fancy, would give himself time, and have the patience to
'follow my LEVER,' the result would be a _Jack Hinton Junior_, with
a smack of _Soapey Sponge_ in it." The short stories are all, more or
less, good, and would be still better but for a certain cocksureness
about them which savours of the man in a country house who will insist
on telling you a series of good stories about himself, one after the
other, until the guests in the smoking-room, in sheer despair of ever
getting their turn of talking about themselves, or of turning on
the tap of their own good stories, light their candles, yawn, and go
pensively to bed.

My "Faithful Co." informs me that he has been reading some very
excellent _Sketches of England_, by a "Foreign Artist," and a "Foreign
Author." The latter is no less a person than the genial representative
of the _Journal des Debats_ in London, Mons. P. VILLARS. My "Co."
says that, take it all round, this is one of the best books upon _La
Perfide Albion_ he has ever read. Both scribe and illustrator are
evidently fond of the "Foreigners" they find in the British Isles.
Mons. VILLARS, however, makes one startling assertion, which has taken
my "Co," by surprise. The "Foreign Author" declares that "laughter
never struck his ears." Now our Monsieur is an admirable _raconteur_,
and if he ever told one of his capital stories to an Englishman of
average intelligence, he _must_ have heard laughter. He has also read
a rather strange work called, _What will Mrs. Grundy say?_ My "Co."
declares that, considering its subject, the book, which is not without
merit, might be recommended as a disciplinary exercise during Lent.

Says "Co. Junior," to the Baron, "Sir, I've just come across AUSTIN
DOBSON and his _Four Frenchwomen_." "Hold!" cries the Baron, frowning.
"No scandal." "Nay, Sir," quoth "Co. Junior," nervously. "'tis but