"It's nonsense," pursued the old gentleman, "utter, bedlamite
nonsense, filling Selwoode up with writing people! Never heard of such
a thing. Gad, I do remember, as a young man, meeting Thackeray at a
garden-party at Orleans House--gentlemanly fellow with a broken nose--
and Browning went about a bit, too, now I think of it. People had 'em
one at a time to lend flavour to a dinner--like an olive; we didn't
dine on olives, though. You have 'em for breakfast, luncheon, dinner,
and everything! I'm sick of olives, I tell you, Margaret!" Margaret
pouted.

"They ain't even good olives. I looked into one of that fellow
Charteris's books the other day--that chap you had here last week.
It was bally rot--proverbs standing on their heads and grinning
like dwarfs in a condemned street-fair! Who wants to be told that
impropriety is the spice of life and that a roving eye gathers
remorse? _You_ may call that sort of thing cleverness, if you like; I
call it damn' foolishness." And the emphasis with which he said this
left no doubt that the Colonel spoke his honest opinion.

"Attractive," said his daughter patiently, "Mr. Charteris is very,
very clever. Mr. Kennaston says literature suffered a considerable
loss when he began to write for the magazines."

And now that Margaret has spoken, permit me to call your attention to
her voice. Mellow and suave and of astonishing volume was Margaret's
voice; it came not from the back of her throat, as most of our women's
voices do, but from her chest; and I protest it had the timbre of a
violin. Men, hearing her voice for the first time, were wont to stare
at her a little and afterward to close their hands slowly, for always