"You want something more aristocratic. What price Hilda Foulke-Ponsonby?"

Dunstable made no objection, and Linton signed the letter with a
flourish.

They installed Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby at Spiking's in the High Street.
It was not a very likely address for a lady whose blood was presumably
of the bluest, but they could think of none except that obliging
stationer who would take in letters for them.

There was a letter for Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby next day. Whatever his
other defects as a correspondent, Mr. Watson was at least prompt with
his responses.

Mr. Montagu Watson presented his compliments, and was deeply grateful
for all the kind things Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby had said about his work
in her letter of the 19th inst. He was, however, afraid that he
scarcely deserved them. Her opportunities of deriving consolation from
"The Soul of Anthony Carrington" had been limited by the fact that
that book had only been published ten days before: while, as for
"Pancakes," to which she had referred in such flattering terms, he
feared that another author must have the credit of any refreshment her
bereaved spirit might have extracted from that volume, for he had
written no work of such a name. His own "Pan Wakes" would, he hoped,
administer an equal quantity of balm.

Mr. Secretary Morrison had slept badly on the night before he wrote
this letter, and had expended some venom upon its composition.