for, as they say, such poems are apt to excite vagueness in the brains of that dim entity, the ‘general public.’  What they do like are commonplace ideas, put in pretty language, and sweetened with sentimentality or emotional religious feelings, such as the thinking powers of their subscribers are competent to absorb without mental strain, and without leaving their accustomed channels.  To be popular it is necessary to be commonplace, or at the least to describe the commonplace, to work in a well-worn groove, and not to startle—­requirements which, unfortunately, simple as they seem, very few persons possess the art of acting up to.  See what happens to the unfortunate novelist, for instance, who dares to break the unwritten law, and defraud his readers of the orthodox transformation scene of the reward of virtue and the discomfiture of vice; or to make his creation finish up in a way that, however well it may be suited to its tenor, or illustrate its more subtle meaning, is contrary to the ‘general reader’s’ idea as to how it should end—­badly, as it is called.  He simply collapses, to rise no more, if he is new at the trade, and, if he is a known man, that book won’t sell.”

“You talk quite feelingly,” said Angela, who was getting rather bored, and wanted, not unnaturally, to hear more about her own lines.

“Yes,” replied Arthur, grimly; “I do.  Once I was fool enough to write a book, but I must tell you that it is a painful subject with me.  It never came out.  Nobody would have it.”

“Oh!  Arthur, I am so sorry; I should like to read your book.  But, as regards the verses, I am glad that you like them, and I really don’t care what a hypothetical general public would say; I wrote them to please you, not the general public.”

“Well, my dear, I am sure I am much obliged to you; I shall value them doubly, once for the giver’s sake, and once for their own.”

Angela blushed, but did not reprove the term of endearment which had slipped unawares from his lips.  Poetry is a dangerous subject between two young people who at heart adore one another; it is apt to excite the brain, and bring about startling revelations.

The day following the reading of Angela’s piece of poetry was rendered remarkable by two events, of which the first was that the weather suddenly turned a somersault, and became beautifully warm; and the second that news reached the Abbey House that, thanks chiefly to Lady Bellamy’s devoted nursing—­who, fearless of infection, had, to the great admiration of all her neighbours, volunteered her services when no nurse could be found to undertake the case—­George was pronounced out of danger.  This piece of news was peculiarly grateful to Philip, for, had his cousin died, the estates must have passed away for ever under the terms of his uncle’s will, for he knew that George had made none.  Angela, too, tried, like a good girl as she was, to lash herself into enthusiasm about it, though in her heart she went as near hating her cousin, since his attempted indignity towards herself, as her gentle nature would allow.  Arthur alone was cynically indifferent; he hated George without any reservation whatsoever.