the trial interview between lord silverdale and ellaline rand took place in the rooms of the old maids' club in the presence of the president. lillie, encouraged by the rush of candidates, occupied herself in embroidering another epigrammatic antimacassar—"it is man who is vain of woman's dress." she had deliberately placed herself out of earshot. to miss rand, lord silverdale was a casual visitor with whom she had drifted into conversation, yet she behaved as prettily as if she knew she was undergoing the viva-voce portion of the examination for entranceship.

there are two classes of flirts—those who love to flirt, 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 varied 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 justify him in relegating 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 gushed, indeed, but charmingly, like a daintily sculptured figure on a marble fountain in a fair pleasaunce. you could be as little offended by her gush, as by her candid confessions of her own talents. the lord had given her a good conceit of herself, and given it her so gracefully, that it was one of her chiefest charms. she spoke with his lordship of shakespeare and others of her profession, and mentioned that she was about to establish a paper called the cherub, after her popular story the cherub that sits up aloft.

"i want to get into closer touch with my readers," she explained, helping herself charmingly to the chocolate creams. "in a book, you cannot get into direct rapport 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 legitimate 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 sketch 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 stimulate the circulation of my books. nay more, with the eye of my admirers thus encouragingly upon me, i shall work more zealously. 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 auditorium."

"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 ripens 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 aspirations 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 tremor of astonishment 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 irrelevantly.

"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 promising to write to her.

"well?" said the president when she was left alone with the honorary trier.

that functionary looked dubious. "up till the very last she seemed single-hearted in her zeal. then she asked whether i was a literary man. you know her story. what do you conclude?"

"i can hardly come to a conclusion. do you think there is still a danger of her marrying to get someone to advertise her?"

"i think it depends on the cherub. if the cherub is born and lives, it will be a more effectual advertising medium than even a husband, and may replace him. a paper of your own can puff you rather better than a husband of your own, it has a larger circulation and more opportunities. an authoress-editress, her worth is far above rubies! her correspondents praise her in the gates and her staff shall rise up and call her blessed. it may well be that she will arrive at that stage at which a husband is an incubus and marriage a manacle. in that day the honor of the club will be safe in her hands."

"what do you suggest then?" said lillie anxiously.

"that you wait till she is delivered of the cherub before deciding."

"very well," she replied resignedly. "only i hope we shall be able to admit her. her conception of the use of man is so sublime!"

lord silverdale smiled. "ah, if the truth were known," he said, "i daresay it would be that pretty women regard man merely as a beast of draught and burden, a creature to draw their checks and carry their cloaks."

lillie answered, "and men look on pretty women either as home pets or as drawing-room decorations."

silverdale said further, "i do not look on you as either."

to which, lillie, "why do you say such obvious things? it is unworthy of you. have you anything worthy of you in your pocket to-day?"

"nothing of your hearing. just a little poem about another cherub."

an ancient passion.

mine is no passion of to-day,

upblazing like a rocket,

to-morrow doomed to die away

and leave you out of pocket.

nor is she one who snared my love

by just the woman's graces:

i loved her when, a sucking dove,

she cooed and made grimaces.

and when the pretty darling cried,

i often stooped and kissed her,

though cold and faint her lips replied,

as though she were my sister.

i loved her long but loved her still

when she discarded long-clothes,

yet here if she had had her will

would this romantic song close.

for, though we wandered hand in hand,

companions close and chronic,

she always made me understand

her motives were platonic.

she said me "nay" with merry mien,

not weeping like the cayman,

when she was mab, the fairy queen,

and i tom king, highwayman.

'twas at a children's fancy ball,

i got that first rejection,

it did not kill my love at all

but heightened its complexion.

my love to tell, when she grew up,

necessitates italics.

her hair was like the buttercup

(corolla not the calyx).

her form was slim, her eye was bright,

her mouth a jewel-casket,

her hand it was so soft and white

i often used to ask it.

and so from year to year i wooed,

my passion growing fiercer,

though she in modest maiden mood

addressed me as "my dear sir."

at twenty she was still as coy,

her heart was like diana's.

the future held for me no joy,

save smoking choice havanas.

at last my perseverance woke

a sweet responsive passion,

and of her love for me she spoke

in woman's wordless fashion.

i told her, when her speech was done,

the task would be above her

to make a happy man of one

who long had ceased to love her.

lillie put on an innocently analytical frown. "i think you behaved very badly," she exclaimed. "you might have waited a little longer."

"do you think so? then i will go and leave you to your labors," said lord silverdale with his wonted irrelevancy.

lillie sat for a long time with pen in hand, thinking without writing. as a change from writing without thinking this was perhaps a relief.

rejected addresses.

"a penny for your thoughts," said the millionaire, stealing in upon her reflections.

lillie started.

"i am not ellaline rand," she said smiling. "wait till the cherub comes out, and you will get hers at that price."

"was ellaline the girl who has just gone?"

"did you see her? i thought you were gardening."

"so i was, but i happened to go into the dining-room for a moment and saw her from the window. i suppose she will be here often."

"i suppose so," said lillie dubiously.

the millionaire rubbed his hands.

"miss eustasia pallas," announced turple the magnificent.

"a new candidate, probably," said the president.

"father, you must go and play in the garden."

the millionaire left the room meekly.