Thomas," Mrs. Selldon had remarked to her husband with a sigh, as
she was arranging the guests on paper that afternoon.

"Oh, he must certainly take you in, my dear," said the Archdeacon.
"And he seems a very clever, well-read man, I am sure you will find
him easy to talk to."

Poor Mrs. Selldon thought that she would rather have had some one
who was neither clever nor well-read. But there was no help for
her, and, whether she would or not, she had to go in to dinner with
the literary lion.

Mr. Mark Shrewsbury was a novelist of great ability. Some twenty
years before, he had been called to the bar, and, conscious of real
talent, had been greatly embittered by the impossibility of getting
on in his profession. At length, in disgust, he gave up all hopes
of success and devoted himself instead to literature. In this field
he won the recognition for which he craved; his books were read
everywhere, his name became famous, his income steadily increased,
and he had the pleasant consciousness that he had found his
vocation. Still, in spite of his success, he could not forget the
bitter years of failure and disappointment which had gone before,
and though his novels were full of genius they were pervaded by an
undertone of sarcasm, so that people after reading them were more
ready than before to take cynical views of life.

He was one of those men whose quiet impassive faces reveal scarcely
anything of their character. He was neither tall nor short, neither
dark nor fair, neither handsome nor the reverse; in fact his
personality was not in the least impressive; while, like most true