that gorgeous feast with indifference, and fell back upon their tripe
and onions--their nameless authors. But some of those who write for them
have adopted one peculiarity of Dumas. The short jerky sentences which
disfigure the 'Three Musketeers,' and indeed all that great novelist's
works, are very frequent with them, which induces me to believe that
they are paid by the line.

On the other hand, some affect fashionable description and conversation
which are drawn out in 'passages that lead to nothing' of an amazing
length.

'Where have I been,' replied Clyde with a carelessness which was half
forced 'Oh, I have been over to Higham to see the dame.'

'Ah, yes,' said Sir Edward, 'and how is the poor old creature?'

'Quite well,' said Clyde, as he sat down and took up the menu of the
elaborate dinner. 'Quite well, she sent her best respects,' he added,
but he said nothing of the lodger, pretty Miss Mary Westlake.

And when, a moment afterwards, the door opened and Grace came flowing
in with her lithe noiseless step, dressed in one of Worth's
masterpieces, a wonder of amber, satin, and antique lace, he raised
his eyes and looked at her with an earnest scrutiny--so earnest that
she paused with her hand on his chair, and met his eyes with a
questioning glance.

'Do you like my new dress?' she said with a calm smile.

'Your dress?' he said. 'Yes, yes, it is very pretty, very.' But to