"I think I saw a novel spoken highly of."
Mr. Alf laughed. "Why not? You do not suppose that it is the object of the 'Pulpit' to cry down novels?"
"I thought it was; but I thought you might make an exception here. I would be so thankful;—so grateful."
"My dear Lady Carbury, pray believe me when I say that I have nothing to do with it. I need not preach to you sermons about literary virtue."
"Oh, no," she said, not quite understanding what he meant.
"The sceptre has passed from my hands, and I need not vindicate the justice of my successor."
"I shall never know your successor."
"But I must assure you that on no account should I think of meddling with the literary arrangement of the paper. I would not do it for my sister." Lady Carbury looked greatly pained. "Send the book out, and let it take its chance. How much prouder you will be to have it praised because it deserves praise, than to know that it has been eulogised as a mark of friendship."
"No, I shan't," said Lady Carbury. "I don't believe that anything like real selling praise is ever given to anybody, except to friends. I don't know how they manage it, but they do." Mr. Alf shook his head. "Oh yes; that is all very well from you. Of course you have been a dragon of virtue; but they tell me that the authoress of the 'New Cleopatra' is a very handsome woman." Lady Carbury must have been worried much beyond her wont, when she allowed herself so far to lose her temper as to bring against Mr. Alf the double charge of being too fond of the authoress in question, and of having sacrificed the justice of his columns to that improper affection.