questions stamped her, in the opinion of her immediate circle,
as a William Pitt in petticoats. She looked upon herself as
the George Eliot of the twentieth century, and dated events
from the time of her first success. "That happened before I
became famous," she would say. "No, it was after I took the
public by storm." And her immediate circle, who appreciated
her cakes and ale, would agree with everything she said. The
Kensington house was called "The Shrine of the Muses!" and
this title was stamped on her envelopes and writing-paper, to
the bewilderment of illiterate postmen. It sounded like the
name of a public-house to them.

Peter was quite lost in the blaze of his wife's literary
glory. He was a plain, homely, small man, as meek as a
rabbit, fond of his garden and fireside, and nervous in
society. Had he not committed the fatal mistake of wedding
Mrs. Saxon, he would have taken a cottage in the country and
cultivated flowers. As it was, he dwelt in town and was
ordered to escort Mrs. Octagon when she chose to "blaze,"
as she put it, in her friends' houses. Also there was a
reception every Friday when literary London gathered round
"Rowena," and lamented the decline of Art. These people had
never done anything to speak of, none of them were famous in
any wide sense, but they talked of art with a big "A," though
what they meant was not clear even to themselves. So far as
could be ascertained Art, with a big "A," was concerned with
something which did not sell, save to a select circle. Mrs.
Octagon's circle would have shuddered collectively and
individually at the idea of writing anything interesting,
likely to be enjoyed by the toilers of modern days. Whatever