good."

Beth knew that if she had said such a thing, Mrs. Carne would have
received it with a stony stare, but now she simpered. "That is so like
you!" she gushed. "But the Wilmingtons were _dreadfully_
disappointed."

"They will get over it," the lady answered, glancing round
indifferently.

"How are you getting on with your new book, Ideala?" Mrs. Kilroy asked
her across the room. Beth instantly froze to attention. This was her
friend, then, Sir George's Ideala.

"I have not got into the swing of it yet," Ideala answered. "It is all
dot-and-go-one--a uniform ruggedness which is not true either to life
or mind. Our ways in the world are stony enough at times, but they are
not all stones. There are smooth stretches along which we gallop, and
sheltered grassy spaces where we rest."

"What _I_ love about _your_ work is the _style_," said Mrs. Carne.

"Do you?" Ideala rejoined, somewhat dryly as it seemed to Beth. "But
what is style?"

"I am so bad at definitions," said Mrs. Carne, "but I _feel_ it, you
know."

"As if it were a thing in itself to be adopted or acquired?" Ideala
asked.

"Yes, quite so," said Mrs. Carne in a tone of relief--as of one who
has acquitted herself better than she expected and is satisfied.

"I am sure it is not," Beth burst out, forgetting herself and her
slights all at once in the interest of the subject. "I have been
reading the lives of authors lately, together with their works, and it
seems to me, in the case of all who had genius, that their style was
the outcome of their characters--their principles--the view they took
of the subject--that is, if they were natural and powerful writers.
Only the second-rate people have a manufactured style, and force their
subject to adapt itself to it--the kind of people whose style is
mentioned quite apart from their matter. In the great ones the style
is the outcome of the subject. Each emotion has its own form of
expression. The language of passion is intense; of pleasure jocund,
easy, abundant; of content calm, of happiness strong but restrained;
of love warm, tender. The language of artificial feeling is
artificial; there is no mistaking insincerity when a writer is not
sincere, and the language of true feeling is equally unmistakable. It
is simple, easy, unaffected; and it is the same in all ages. The
artificial styles of yesterday go out of fashion with the dresses
their authors wear, and become an offence to our taste; but
Shakespear