"The first instalment," I learned, "introduces the reader to a
brilliant and distinguished company, assembled in the drawing-room of
Lady Mary's maisonette in Park Street. Much smart talk is indulged
in."

I know that "smart talk" so well. Had I not been lucky enough to
miss that first chapter I should have had to listen to it once again.
Possibly, here and there, it might have been new to me, but it would
have read, I know, so very like the old. A dear, sweet white-haired
lady of my acquaintance is never surprised at anything that happens.

"Something very much of the same kind occurred," she will remember,
"one winter when we were staying in Brighton. Only on that occasion
the man's name, I think, was Robinson."

We do not live new stories--nor write them either. The man's name in
the old story was Robinson, we alter it to Jones. It happened, in
the old forgotten tale, at Brighton, in the winter time; we change it
to Eastbourne, in the spring. It is new and original--to those who
have not heard "something very like it" once before.

"Much smart talk is indulged in," so the sub-editor has explained.
There is absolutely no need to ask for more than that. There is a
Duchess who says improper things. Once she used to shock me. But I
know her now. She is really a nice woman; she doesn't mean them.
And when the heroine is in trouble, towards the middle of the book,
she is just as amusing on the side of virtue. Then there is a
younger lady whose speciality is proverbs. Apparently whenever she
hears a proverb she writes it down and studies it with the idea of