"Strange thing, Mrs. Steel, but you can't get the meat in the country
that you can in town. Those fillets, now--I wish you could taste 'em at
my club; but we give our chef a thousand a year, and he drives up every
day in his brougham."
The novels of Charles Langholm were chiefly remarkable for their
intricate plots, and for the hope of better things that breathed through
the cheap sensation of the best of them. But it was a hope that had been
deferred a good many years. His manner was better than his matter;
indeed, an incongruous polish was said by the literary to prevent
Langholm from being a first favorite either with the great public or the
little critics. As a maker of plots, however, he still had humble
points; and Rachel assured him that she had burnt her candle all night
in order to solve one of his ingenious mysteries.
"What!" he cried; "you call yourself a lady, and you don't look at the
end before you reach it?"
"Not when it's a good book."
"Well, you have pitched on about the best of a bad lot; and it's a
satisfaction to know you didn't cut the knot it took some months to
tie."
Rachel was greatly interested.
Pages:
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147