heard a part of their conversation might prove disquieting to them.

The Celebrity had just published a book, under the title of 'The
Sybarites', which was being everywhere discussed; and Asquith, where
summer reading was general, came in for its share of the debate. Why it
was called The Sybarites I have never discovered. I did not read the
book because I was sick and tired of the author and his nonsense, but I
imbibed, in spite of myself, something of the story and its moral from
hearing it talked about. The Celebrity himself had listened to arguments
on the subject with great serenity, and was nothing loth to give his
opinion when appealed to. I realized at once that 'The Sybarites' was
the present topic.

"Yes, it is rather an uncommon book," he was saying languidly, "but there
is no use writing a story unless it is uncommon."

"Dear, how I should like to meet the author!" exclaimed a voice.
"He must be a charming man, and so young, too! I believe you said
you knew him, Mr. Allen."

"An old acquaintance," he answered, "and I am always reminding him that
his work is overestimated."

"How can you say he is overestimated!" said a voice.

"You men are all jealous of him," said another.

"Is he handsome? I have heard he is."

"He would scarcely be called so," said the Celebrity, doubtfully.