There are two classes of flirts5—those who love to flirt6, and those who flirt to love. There is little to be said against the latter, for they are merely experimenting. They intend to fall in love, but they can hardly compass it without preliminary acquaintance, and by giving themselves a wide and varied7 selection, are more likely to discover the fitting object of affection. It is easy to confound both classes of flirts together, and heartbroken lovers generally do so, when they do not use a stronger expression. But so far as Lord Silverdale could tell, there was nothing in Miss Rand's behavior to justify8 him in relegating9 her to either class, or to make him doubt the genuineness of the anti-hymeneal feelings provoked by her disappointment in Trepolpen. Her manner was simple and artless—she gushed11, indeed, but charmingly, like a daintily sculptured figure on a marble fountain in a fair pleasaunce. You could be as little offended by her gush10, as by her candid1 confessions12 of her own talents. The Lord had given her a good conceit13 of herself, and given it her so gracefully14, that it was one of her chiefest charms. She spoke15 with his lordship of Shakespeare and others of her profession, and mentioned that she was about to establish a paper called The Cherub16, after her popular story The Cherub That Sits Up Aloft.
"I want to get into closer touch with my readers," she explained, helping17 herself charmingly to the chocolate creams. "In a book, you cannot get into direct rapport18 with your public. Your characters are your rivals and distract attention from the personality of the author. In a journal I shall be able to chat with them freely, open my heart to them and gather them to it. There is a legitimate19 curiosity to learn all about me—the same curiosity that I feel about other authors. Why should I allow myself to be viewed in the refracting medium of alien ink? Let me sketch20 myself to my readers, tell them what I eat and drink, and how I write, and when, what clothes I wear and how much I pay for them, what I think of this or that book of mine, of this or that character of my creation, what my friends think of me, and what I think of my friends. All the features of the paper will combine to make my face. I shall occupy all the stories, and every column will have me at the top. In this way I hope, not only to gratify my yearnings for sympathy, but to stimulate21 the circulation of my books. Nay22 more, with the eye of my admirers thus encouragingly upon me, I shall work more zealously24. You see, Lord Silverdale, we authors are a race apart—without the public hanging upon our words, we are like butterflies in a London fog, or actors playing to an empty auditorium25."
"I have noticed that," said Lord Silverdale dryly, "before authors succeed, it takes them a year to write a book, after they succeed it takes them only a month."
"You see I am right," said Ellaline eagerly. "That's what the sun of public sympathy does. It ripens26 work quickly."
"Yes, and when the sun is very burning, it sometimes takes the authors no time at all."
"Ah, now you are laughing at me. You are speaking of 'ghosts.'"
"Yes. Ghost stories are published all the year round—not merely at Christmas. Don't think I'm finding fault. I look upon an author who keeps his ghost, as I do on a tradesmen who keeps his carriage. It is a sign he has succeeded."
"Oh, but it's very wicked, giving the public underweight like that!" said Ellaline in her sweet, serious way. "How can anybody write as well as yourself? But why I mentioned about The Cherub is because it has just struck me the paper might become the organ of the Old Maids' Club, for I should make a point of speaking freely of my aims and aspirations27 in joining it. I presume you know all about Miss Dulcimer's scheme?"
"Oh, yes! But I don't think it feasible."
"You don't?" she said, with a little tremor28 of astonishment29 in her voice. "And why not?" She looked anxiously into his eyes for the reply.
"The candidates are too charming to remain single," he explained, smiling.
She smiled back a little at him, those sweet gray eyes still looking into his.
"You are not a literary man?" she said irrelevantly30.
"I am afraid I must plead guilty to trying to be," he said. "The evidence is down in black and white."
The smile died away and for an instant Ellaline's brow went into black for it. She accepted an ice from Turple the magnificent, but took her leave shortly afterwards, Lillie
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