t girl's face is pretty waxwork. There's no death there," and he
turned half away in contempt. "That is what comes of being popular and
a success. No; Delavar is done. I told him so."

"He is quite new to me," said Minola. "I never heard of him before."

"He's getting old now," Blanchet said. "He must be quite thirty. Let me
see--oh, yes; fully that. He had better join the pre-Raphaelites now;
or send to the Royal Academy; or hire a gallery and exhibit his
pictures at a shilling a head. I fancy they would be quite a success."

Some of this conversation took place as they were making their way
through the crowd with the intention of entering the drawing-room
again. Minola was greatly amused, and in a manner interested. The whole
thing was entirely new to her. As they passed into the corridor there
were one or two vacant seats.

"Will you rest for a moment?" Blanchet said, motioning toward a seat.

"Hadn't we better go back for Mary?"

"We'll go back presently. She is very happy; she loves above all things
observing a crowd."

Minola would have liked very much to observe the crowd herself and to
have people pointed out to her. Blanchet, however, though he saluted
several persons here and there, did not seem particularly interested in
any of them. Minola sat down for a while to please him, and to show
that she had no thought of giving herself airs merely because she was
enabled to be kind to his sister.

Blanchet threw himself sidelong across his chair and leaned toward
Minola's seat. He knew that people were looking at him and wondering
who his companion was, and he felt very happy.

"I wish I might read some of my poems to you, Miss Grey," he said. "I
should like to have your opinion, because I know it would be sincere."

"I should be delighted to hear them, but I don't think I should venture
to give an opinion; my opinion would not be worth anything."

"When may I come and read one or two to you and Mary? To-morrow
afternoon?"

"Oh, yes; we are staying here tonight, but we shall be at home in the
afternoon. Are these published poems? Pray, excuse me--I quite forgot;
you don't publish. You don't care for fame--the fame that sets other
people wild."

He smiled, and slightly shrugged his shoulders.

"We don't care for the plaudits of the stupid crowd," he said; "that is
quite true. We don't care for popularity, and to have our books lying
on drawing-room tables, and kept by the booksellers bound in morocco