had with Gerald Staunton, and was surprised one day to hear his name mentioned with admiration by one who was considered an excellent judge of literature.
"Not a great author, by any means," said this Mr. Saville; "his books did not take with the public, although they were carefully written, and very correct as works of art. They wanted less hasty reading than this nineteenth century public will give to anything. But as a critic he was unrivalled. No such subtle or exhaustive criticism or poetry, no such true and pointed judgment of fiction, has ever been seen in England since he left the Palladium. And his magazine articles on social questions and on philology were admirable."
"Do you know him?" asked Anthony, awkwardly.
"Not personally; he was always a retiring scholar, and did not know his own value. I do not think the Palladium knew it till it lost him."
"Can you tell me where this Mr. Staunton is now?" asked Anthony.
"I think he went to Australia and died there, but, as I said, I have no personal knowledge of him whatever. If you Wish to know anything about him you should enquire at the Palladium office. They are sure to know there."
