our nearest and dearest, who don't know, and never
_can_ know

Half the reasons why we smile or sigh

(unless, indeed, we are autobiographists: then they know _all_ the
reasons)--that WE should be confused with the vast mob of foolish,
sentimental spinsters, or pedantic clerics, or egotistic old bachelors!

Away!--away! The reeling mind stops its ears against these obscene
suggestions.

The only alternative which remains is that an unscrupulous novelist has
_heard_ of us--nothing more likely--without being actually acquainted
with us, and has listened to garbled accounts of us from our so-called
friends; or has actually met us at a bazaar or a funeral, though of
course he professes to have forgotten the meeting; has been impressed
with our subtle personality--nothing more likely--has felt an envious
admiration of what we ourselves value but little--our social charm--and
has yielded--nothing more likely--to the ignoble temptation of
caricaturing qualities which he cannot emulate. Or perhaps he has known
us for years, and has shown a mysterious indifference to our society, an
impatience of our deeper utterances, which we can now, _at last_, trace
to its true source, a guilty consciousness of premeditated treachery
which has led him to strike us in a dastardly manner, which we can
indeed afford--being what we are--to forgive, but which we shall never
forget. And if an opportunity offers later on, it is possible that an
unprejudiced and judicial mind may feel called upon to indicate what it
thinks of such conduct.

Perhaps only those whose temperament leads them to believe themselves
ridiculed in a book know the rankling smart, the exquisite pain, the
sense of treachery of such an experience. It is probably the most
offensive slight that can be offered to a sensitive nature.

And if the author realises this, even while he knows himself to be
guiltless in the matter, it is probable, if he also is somewhat
sensitive--and some authors are--that a great deal of the delight he may
derive from a successful novel may be dimmed by the realisation that he
has unwittingly pained a stranger, or, worse still, an acquaintance, or,
immeasurably worst of all, an old friend.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] One of these unknown correspondents wrote that their vicar had that
Sunday begun--he would have said _commenced_--his sermon with the words,
"God is Love, as the Archbishop of Canterbury remarked last week in
Westminster Abbey."

[2] _T