"Ah!" said he, turning to the title-page--"my friend ought to be much
flattered."

"Your friend?"

"Yes: this, I see, is by Ernest Maltravers, a very intimate ally of
mine."

"I should like to see him," cried Mrs. Templeton, almost with animation.
"I read but little; it was by chance that I met with one of his books,
and they are as if I heard a dear friend speaking to me. Ah! I should
like to see him!"

"I'm sure, madam," said the voice of a third person, in an austere and
rebuking accent, "I do not see what good it would do your immortal soul
to see a man who writes idle verses, which appear to me, indeed, highly
immoral. I just looked into that volume this morning and found nothing
but trash--love-sonnets, and such stuff."

Mrs. Templeton made no reply, and Lumley, in order to change the
conversation, which seemed a little too matrimonial for his taste, said,
rather awkwardly, "You are returned very soon, sir."

"Yes, I don't like walking in the rain!"

"Bless me, it rains, so, it does--I had not observed--"

"Are you wet, sir? had you not better--" began the wife timidly.