"How unutterably this good lady bores me!" thought the author.

"How odd it is that his characters talk so well in his books, and
that he is such a stick!" thought Mrs. Selldon.

"I suppose it's the effect of cathedral-town atmosphere," reflected
the author.

"I suppose he is eaten up with conceit and won't trouble himself to
talk to me," thought the hostess.

By the time the fish had been removed they had arrived at a state of
mutual contempt. Mindful of the reputation they had to keep up,
however, they exerted themselves a little more while the entrees
went round.

"Seldom reads, I should fancy, and never thinks!" reflected the
author, glancing at Mrs. Selldon's placid unintellectual face.
"What on earth can I say to her?"

"Very unpractical, I am sure," reflected Mrs. Selldon. "The sort of
man who lives in a world of his own, and only lays down his pen to
take up a book. What subject shall I start?"

"What delightful weather we have been having the last few days!"
observed the author. "Real genuine summer weather at last." The
same remark had been trembling on Mrs. Selldon's lips. She assented
with great cheerfulness and alacrity; and over that invaluable
topic, which is always so safe, and so congenial, and so ready to
hand, they grew quite friendly, and the conversation for fully five