"Yes," he would murmur, as he pored over the close-printed clippings, snuffing up their praise. "Yes, there was a novel in me. There was."
Of course no one, in the Athenæum Club and elsewhere, whom he engaged in conversation about "Trixie" gave him anything but comfortable words. It was known to all his world that Dunkle was his son-in-law. Well, you don't tell a man—not, at any rate, if he is an Archdeacon—that you think his son-in-law's book is hen's-meat. You simply don't do it. You say, "Charming, charming!" or "I haven't yet managed to get hold of it, but I hear on all sides that it is a wonderfully fine story"; or "You must be uncommonly proud of that boy's success." I assume, of course, that you are a gentleman—that is to say, the sole sort of person with whom the
