Mr. Ritson's previous work. "Here, undoubtedly, the author has discovered
a vein of pure metal," the reviewer added, "and we predict that he will
go far." Lucian had not yet reached his father's stage, he was unable to
grin in the manner of that irreverent parson. The passage selected for
high praise was taken almost word for word from the manuscript now
resting in his room, the work that had not reached the high standard of
Messrs Beit & Co., who, curiously enough, were the publishers of the book
reviewed in the _Reader_. He had a few shillings in his possession, and
wrote at once to a bookseller in London for a copy of _The Chorus in
Green_, as the author had oddly named the book. He wrote on June 21st and
thought he might fairly expect to receive the interesting volume by the
24th; but the postman, true to his tradition, brought nothing for him,
and in the afternoon he resolved to walk down to Caermaen, in case it
might have come by a second post; or it might have been mislaid at the
office; they forgot parcels sometimes, especially when the bag was heavy
and the weather hot. This 24th was a sultry and oppressive day; a grey
veil of cloud obscured the sky, and a vaporous mist hung heavily over the
land, and fumed up from the valleys. But at five o'clock, when he
started, the clouds began to break, and the sunlight suddenly streamed
down through the misty air, making ways and channels of rich glory, and
bright islands in the gloom. It was a pleasant and shining evening when,
passing by devious back streets to avoid the barbarians (as he very
rudely called the respectable inhabitants of the town), he reached the
post-office; which was also the general shop.

"Yes, Mr. Taylor, there is something for you, sir," said the man.
"Williams the postman forgot to take it up this morning," and he handed
over the packet. Lucian took it under his arm and went slowly through the
ragged winding lanes till he came into the country. He got over the first
stile on the road, and sitting down in the shelter of a hedge, cut the