"A misanthropic debauchee," said Felix, lifting a chair with one hand, and holding the book open in the other, "whose notion of a hero was that he should disorder his stomach and despise mankind. His corsairs and renegades, his Alps and Manfreds, are the most paltry puppets that were ever pulled by the strings of lust and pride."
"Hand the book to me," said Mr Lyon.
"Let me beg of you to put it aside till after tea, father," said Esther. "However objectionable Mr Holt may find its pages, they would certainly be made worse by being greased with bread-and-butter."
"That is true, my dear," said Mr Lyon, laying down the book on the small table behind him. He saw that his daughter was angry.
"Ho, ho!" thought Felix, "her father is frightened at her. How came he to have such a nice-stepping, long-necked peacock for his daughter? but she shall see that I am not frightened." Then he said aloud, "I should like to know how you will justify your admiration for such a writer, Miss Lyon."
"I should not attempt it with you, Mr Holt," said Esther. "You have such strong words at command, that they make the smallest argument
