Poor Mr. Jones had confused himself as well as Lady Angleby, but the return to the drawing-room created an opportune diversion.  He took up an illustrated paper with a scene from a new play, and after studying it for a few minutes began to denounce the amusements of the gay world in the tone of a man who has known nothing of them, but has let his imagination run into very queer illusions.  This passed harmless.  Nobody was concerned to defend the actor’s vocation where nobody followed it; but Mr. Jones was next so ill-advised as to turn to Miss Hague, and say with a supercilious air that since they last met he had been trying to read a novel, which he mentioned by name—­a masterpiece of modern fiction—­and really he could not see the good of such works.  Miss Hague and he had disagreed on this subject before.  She was an inveterate novel-reader, and claimed kindred with a star of chief magnitude in the profession, and to speak lightly of light literature in her presence always brought her out warmly and vigorously in defence and praise of it.

“No good in such works, Mr. Jones!” cried she.  “My hair is gray, and this is a solemn fact:  for the conduct of life I have found far more counsel and comfort in novels than in sermons, in week-day books than in Sunday preachers!”

There was a startled silence.  Miss Burleigh extended a gentle hand to stop the impetuous old lady, but the words were spoken, and she could only intervene as moderator:  “Novels show us ourselves at a distance, as it were.  I think they are good both for instruction and reproof.  The best of them are but the Scripture parables in modern masquerade.  Here is one—­the Prodigal Son of the nineteenth century, going out into the world, wasting his substance with riotous living, suffering, repenting, returning, and rejoiced over.”

“Our Lord made people think:  I am not aware that novels make people think,” said Mr. Jones with cool contempt.

“Apply your mind to the study of either of these books—­Mr. Thackeray’s or George Eliot’s—­and you will not find all its powers too much for their appreciation,” said Miss Hague.

Mr. Jones made a slight grimace:  “Pray excuse the comparison, Miss Hague, but you remind me of a groom of mine whom I sent up to the Great Exhibition.  When he came home again all he had to say was, ’Oh, sir, the saddlery was beautiful!’”

“Nothing like leather!” laughed Lady Angleby.

“He showed his wit—­he spoke of what he understood,” said Miss Hague.  “You undertake to despise light literature, of which avowedly you know nothing.  Tell me:  of the little books and tracts that you circulate, which are the most popular?”

“The tales and stories; they are thumbed and blackened when the serious pages are left unread,” Mr. Jones admitted.