Mrs Dale.—"Is the author known yet?"
Randal.—"I have heard it ascribed to many writers, but I believe no one has claimed it."
Parson.—"I think it must have been written by my old college friend, Professor Moss, the naturalist; its descriptions of scenery are so accurate."
Mrs Dale.—"La, Charles dear! that snuffy, tiresome, prosy professor? How can you talk such nonsense? I am sure the author must be young; there is so much freshness of feeling."
Mrs Hazeldean, (positively.)—"Yes, certainly young."
Parson, (no less positively.)—"I should say just the contrary. Its tone is too serene, and its style too simple for a young man. Besides, I don't know any young man who would send me his book, and this book has been sent me—very handsomely bound too, you see. Depend upon it, Moss is the man—quite his turn of mind."
Mrs Dale.—"You are too provoking, Charles dear! Mr Moss is so remarkably plain, too."
Randal.—"Must an author be handsome?"
Parson.—"Ha, ha! Answer that, if you can, Carry."
Carry remained mute and disdainful.