"Did your grace ever see such a bear?" said one of the echoes.

"Never," said the duchess, with a mortified air; "but I will have him
yet. How handsome he is for an author!"

I was descending the stairs in the last state of ennui, when Glanville
laid his hand on my shoulder.

"Shall I take you home?" said he: "my carriage has just drawn up."

I was too glad to answer in the affirmative.

"How long have you been an author?" said I, when we were seated in
Glanville's carriage.

"Not many days," he replied. "I have tried one resource after another--
all--all in vain. Oh, God! that for me there could exist such a blessing
as fiction! Must I be ever the martyr of one burning, lasting, indelible
truth!"

Glanville uttered these words with a peculiar wildness and energy of
tone: he then paused abruptly for a minute, and continued, with an
altered voice--"Never, my dear Pelham, be tempted by any inducement into
the pleasing errors of print; from that moment you are public property;
and the last monster at Exeter 'Change has more liberty than you; but
here we are at Mivart's. Addio--I will call on you to-morrow, if my
wretched state of health will allow me."

And with these words we parted.