me was past now.

She could not cry over cheap pathos, or laugh at secondhand humour, or
shudder at sham cynicism any longer--desperate escapes and rescues
moved her not, and she had wearied of beautiful wicked fiends and
effeminate golden-haired guardsmen, who hold a Titanic strength in
reserve as their one practical joke, but the liberty she had enjoyed
had done her no particular harm, even if many mothers might have
thought it their duty to restrict it, which Mrs. Langton was too
languid or had too much confidence in her daughter to think of
attempting.

Mabel had only returned to the works of the great masters of this
century with an appreciation heightened by contrast, and though her
new delight in them did not blind her--as why should it?--to the
lesser lights in whom something may be found to learn or enjoy, she
now had standards by which she could form her opinions of them.

Amongst the books sent in that week was 'Illusion,' a romance by Cyril
Ernstone, and Mabel had looked at its neat grey-green covers and red
lettering with a little curiosity, for somebody had spoken of it to
her the day before, and she took it up with the intention of reading a
chapter or two before going out with her racket into the square, where
the tennis season had already set in on the level corner of the lawn.

But the afternoon wore on, and she remained by the window in a low
wicker chair, indifferent to the spring sunshine outside, to the
attractions of lawn tennis, or the occasional sounds of callers,
reading on with parted lips and an occasional little musical laugh or
involuntary sigh, as Holroyd had once dreamed of seeing his book read
by her.

His strong and self-contained nature had unfolded all its deepest
tenderness and most cherished fancies in that his first book, and the
pages had the interest of a confession. Mabel felt that personal
affection for the unknown writer which to have aroused must be the
crown of crowns to those who love their art.

The faults of style and errors of taste here and there which jarred
upon her were still too rare or too foreign to the general tone of the
book to prejudice her seriously, and she put down the book half
finished, not from weariness but with an unusual desire to economise
the pleasure it gave her.

'I wonder what "Cyril Ernstone" is like,' she thought, half
unconsciously.

Perhaps, by the way, a popular but plain author who finds it
necessary to cultivate society, would d