“Are there not compensations, Captain Warrender?” asked a lady, whose refined, intellectual cast of countenance suggested literature. “Think how delightful to hear of one’s last new book being rushed for new editions, and simply being devoured all over the world.”
“Success is pleasant in whatever state of life it comes to one, but were I allowed to choose between reading and writing, my vote would be distinctly in favour of the former. The delightful self-complacency with his task which the author of a successful book is supposed to feel is over-rated, I assure you. It becomes a task, like all other compulsory labour, and there are so many times and seasons when one would much rather do something else. The chief, almost the only valuable result to the producer (except the money, which, of course, is not despised) is, that the reputation of successful authorship brings with it a host of agreeable acquaintances, and even some true and lifelong friendships.”
“Have you found other authors free from envy, malice, and so forth?” asked Mrs. Allendale.
“I can truly say that I have, with the rarest exceptions. Now and then a man writing on party lines will administer a dose of unkind, perhaps unfair, criticism which he calls ‘slating’ your book. But there is little real ill-nature in the article, however much you may feel annoyed at the time. And the freemasonry which exists among literary people, great and small, makes on the whole for friendly relations. A man says: ‘Oh, you wrote Cocoanuts and Cannibals, didn’t you? Had rather a run when it came out. Queer place to live in, I should think.’ Then you foregather, and become, as it were, the honorary member of a club. Not that one volunteers this information, but it leaks out.”
“Oh, here is the châlet gate, and I see Mrs. Wendover’s pet Jersey cow, ‘Lily Langtry,’” said Miss Chetwynde. “How nice she looks among the red and white clover. Puts one in mind of dear old England, doesn’t it?”
“Where you never were,” laughed another maiden of the happy isle.
“I know that, but I’ve read so much about the grand old country that I can fancy everything. Dear Miss Mitford! what a lovely touch she has! I shall go there some day if I live. In the meantime here comes Mrs. Wendover, all smiles, welcome, and a picture hat, dear creature! I wonder what Miss Mitford would have thought of this forest, which comes up so close to the house, if she had seen it. I should be afraid of a fire some day.”
“Oh! our forests don’t burn so badly, even when they are on fire; this place is safe enough. Sunburn is our worst danger just now, and there’s the naval ball this evening. My cheeks are on fire, just feel them.”
“Oh, certainly, Miss Chetwynd!” said a small middy, who was of the party. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“I was not speaking to you, Mr. Harcourt. I was replying to Clara Mildmay, and I shall cancel that dance I promised you this evening if you’re not more respectful.”