met each other day after
day, and the only intruders were occasional visitors of irreproachable
antecedents from Tunbridge Wells. Respectability is a plant which in
that fashionable watering-place has been so assiduously cultivated that
it flourishes now in the open air; like the yellow gorse, it is found in
every corner, thriving hardily under the most unfavourable conditions;
and the keener the wind, the harder the frost, the more proudly does it
hold its head. But on this particular day the gathering was confined to
the immediate neighbours, and when the Parsons arrived they found,
beside their hosts, only the Clibborns and the inevitable curate. There
was a prolonged shaking of hands, inquiries concerning the health of all
present, and observations suggested by the weather; then they sat down
in a circle, and set themselves to discuss the questions of the day.

"Oh, Mr. Dryland," cried Mary, "thanks so much for that book! I am
enjoying it!"

"I thought you'd like it," replied the curate, smiling blandly. "I know
you share my admiration for Miss Corelli."

"Mr. Dryland has just lent me 'The Master Christian,'" Mary explained,
turning to Mrs. Jackson.

"Oh, I was thinking of putting it on the list for my next book."

They had formed a club in Little Primpton of twelve persons, each buying
a six-shilling book at the beginning of the year, and passing it on in
return for another after a certain interval, so that at the end of
twelve months all had read a dozen masterpieces of contemporary fiction.

"I thought I'd like to buy it at once," said Mr. Dryland. "I always
think one ought to possess Marie Corelli's books. She's the only really
great novelist we have in England now."

Mr. Dryland was a man of taste and authority, so that his literary
judgments could always be relied on.

"Of course, I don't pretend to know much about the matter," said Mary,
modestly. "There are more important things in life than books; but I do
think she's splendid. I can't help feeling I'm wasting my time when I
read most novels, but I never feel that with Marie Corelli."

"No one would think she was a woman," said the Vicar.

To which the curate answered: "_Le genie n'a pas de sexe._"

The others, being no scholars, did not quite understand the remark, but
they looked intelligent.

"I always think it's so disgraceful the way the newspapers sneer at
her," said Mrs. Jackson. "And, I'm sure, merely because she's a woman."

"And be