she enlarges everything she touches. Above all she exaggerates—to herself, I mean. She exaggerates you and me!"
There was nothing in this description to allay the excitement produced in the mind of our younger friend by such a sketch of a fine subject. It seemed to him to show the art of St. George's admired hand, and he lost himself in it, gazing at the vision (it hovered there before him,) of a woman's figure which should be part of the perfection of a novel. At the end of a moment he became aware that it had turned into smoke, and out of the smoke—the last puff of a big cigar—proceeded the voice of General Fancourt, who had left the others and come and planted himself before the gentlemen on the sofa. "I suppose that when you fellows get talking you sit up half the night."
"Half the night?—jamais de la vie! I follow a hygiene," St. George replied, rising to his feet.
"I see, you're hothouse plants," laughed the General. "That's the way you produce your flowers."
"I produce mine between ten and one every morning; I bloom with a regularity!" St. George went on.
"And with a splendour!" added the polite General, while Paul Overt noted how little the author of Shadowmere minded, as he phrased it to himself, when he was addressed as a celebrated story-teller. The young man had an idea that he should never get used to that—it would always make him uncomfortable (from the suspicion that people would think they had to,) and he would want to prevent it. Evidently his more illustrious congener had toughened and hardened—had made himself a surface. The group of men had finished their cigars and taken up their bedroom candlesticks; but before they all passed out Lord Watermouth invited St.
