it, and read it all. I don't think
there was any harm in it. Why do you give such bad characters of women?
Don't you know any good ones? Yes, two as good as any in the world. They
are unselfish: they are pious; they are always doing good; they live in
the country? Why don't you put them into a book? Why don't you put
my uncle into a book? He is so good, that nobody could make him good
enough. Before I came out, I heard a young lady--(Lady Clavering's
daughter, Miss Amory) sing a song of yours. I have never spoken to an
author before. I saw Mr. Lyon at Lady Popinjoy's, and heard him speak.
He said it was very hot, and he looked so, I am sure. Who is the
greatest author now alive? You will tell me when you come upstairs after
dinner;--and the young lady sails away, following the matrons, who
rise and ascend to the drawing-room. Miss Newcome has been watching the
behaviour of the author by whom she sate; curious to know what such a
person's habits are; whether he speaks and acts like other people; and
in what respect authors are different from persons "in society."

When we had sufficiently enjoyed claret and politics below-stairs, the
gentlemen went to the drawing-room to partake of coffee and the ladies'
delightful conversation. We had heard previously the tinkling of the
piano above, and the well-known sound of a couple of Miss Rosey's five
songs. The two young ladies were engaged over an album at a side-table,
when the males of the party arrived. The book contained a number of
Clive's drawings made in the time of his very early youth for the
amusement of his little cousins. Miss Ethel seemed to be very much
pleased with these performances, which Miss Mackenzie likewise examined
with great good-nature and satisfaction. So she did the views of
Rome, Naples, Marble Hill in the county of Sussex, etc., in the same
collection: so she did the Berlin cockatoo and spaniel which Mrs.
Newcome was working in idle moments: so she did the "Books of Beauty,"
"Flowers of Loveliness," and so forth. She thought the prints very sweet
and pretty: she thought the poetry very pretty and sweet. Which did she
like best, Mr. Niminy's "Lines to a bunch of violets," or Miss Piminy's
"Stanzas to a wreath of roses"? Miss Mackenzie was quite puzzled to
say which of these masterpieces she preferred; she found them alike so
pretty. She appealed, as in most cases, to mamma. "How, my darling
love, can I pretend to know?" mamma says. "I have been a soldi