 Mrs. Lessingham of the ideas he had formed regarding
conversation in the drawing-rooms of English ladies.
    »Civilization is spreading among us,« she replied, with a laugh. »Once or
twice it has been my privilege to introduce young Frenchmen, who were studying
our language, to English families abroad, and in those cases I privately
recommended to them a careful study of Anthony Trollope's novels, that they
might learn what is permissible in conversation and what is not. But here and
there in London you will find it possible to discuss things that interest
reasonable beings.«
    At the door sounded the name of Mr. Bickerdike, and there advanced towards
the hostess a tall, ugly young man, known by repute to all the English people
present. He was the author of a novel called »A Crown of Lilies,« which was much
talked of just now, and excited no less ridicule than admiration. On the one
hand, it was lauded for delicate purity and idealism; on the other, it was
scoffed at for artificiality and affected refinement. Mrs. Lessingham had met
him for the first time a week ago. Her invitation was not due to approval of his
book, but to personal interest which the author moved in her; she was curious to
discover how far the idealism of »A Crown of Lilies« was a genuine fruit of the
man's nature. Mr. Bickerdike's countenance did not promise clarity of soul; his
features were distinctly coarse, and the glance he threw round the room on
entering made large demands.
    Irene Delph was talking with a young married lady named Mrs. Travis; they
both regarded Mr. Bickerdike with close scrutiny.
    »Who could have imagined such an author for the book!« murmured the girl, in
wonder.
    »I could perfectly well,« murmured back Mrs. Travis, with a smile which
revealed knowledge of humanity.
    »I pictured a very youthful man, with a face of effeminate beauty - probably
a hectic colour in his cheeks.«
    »Such men don't write the novel of the season. This gentleman is very
shrewd; he gauges the public. Some day, if he sees fit, he will write a brutal
book, and it will have merit.«
    Mr. Bickerdike unfortunately did not speak French, so M. Silvenoire was
unable to exchange ideas with him. The Parisian, having learnt what this
gentleman's claims were, regarded him through his pince-nez with a subtle smile.
But in a few moments he had something more interesting to observe.
    »Mrs.
