Mr. Alf certainly had behaved badly to her; but both Mr. Broune of the "Breakfast Table," and Mr. Booker of the "Literary Chronicle," had been true to her interests. Lady Carbury had, as she promised, "done" Mr. Booker's "New Tale of a Tub" in the "Breakfast Table." That is, she had been allowed, as a reward for looking into Mr. Broune's eyes, and laying her soft hand on Mr. Broune's sleeve, and suggesting to Mr. Broune that no one understood her so well as he did, to bedaub Mr. Booker's very thoughtful book in a very thoughtless fashion,--and to be paid for her work. What had been said about his work in the "Breakfast Table" had been very distasteful to poor Mr. Booker. It grieved his inner contemplative intelligence that such rubbish should be thrown upon him; but in his outside experience of life he knew that even the rubbish was valuable, and that he must pay for it in the manner to which he had unfortunately become accustomed. So Mr. Booker himself wrote the article on the "Criminal Queens" in the "Literary Chronicle," knowing that what he wrote would also be rubbish. "Remarkable vivacity." "Power of delineating character." "Excellent choice of subject." "Considerable intimacy with the historical details of various periods." "The literary world would be sure to hear of Lady Carbury again." The composition of the review, together with the reading of the book, consumed altogether perhaps an hour of Mr. Booker's time. He made no attempt to cut the pages, but here and there read those that were open. He had done this kind of thing so often, that he knew well what he was about. He could have reviewed such a book when he was three parts asleep. When the work was done he threw down his pen and uttered a deep sigh. He felt it to be hard upon him that he should be compelled, by the exigencies of his position, to descend so low in literature; but it did not occur to him to reflect that in fact he was not compelled, and that he was quite at liberty to break stones, or to starve honestly, if no other honest mode of carrying on his career was open to him. "If I didn't, somebody else would," he said to himself.

Mr. Alf certainly had behaved badly to her; but both Mr. Broune of the Breakfast Table, and Mr. Booker of the Literary Chronicle, had been true. Lady Carbury had, as she promised, "done" Mr. Booker's "New Tale of a Tub" in the Breakfast Table. That is, she had been allowed, as a reward for looking into Mr. Broune's eyes, and laying her soft hand on Mr. Broune's sleeve, to bedaub Mr. Booker's very thoughtful book in a very thoughtless fashion, and to be paid for it.
Her review had been very distasteful to poor Mr. Booker. It grieved his intelligence that such rubbish should be thrown upon him; but he knew that even the rubbish was valuable, and that he must pay for it in the usual manner. So Mr. Booker himself reviewed "Criminal Queens" in the Literary Chronicle, knowing that what he wrote would also be rubbish. "Remarkable vivacity." "Power of delineating character." "Excellent choice of subject." "The literary world would be sure to hear of Lady Carbury again." The writing of the review, together with the reading of the book, took him perhaps an hour. He had done this kind of thing so often that he knew what he was about. When the work was done he threw down his pen and uttered a deep sigh, feeling it hard that he had to descend so low in literature. "If I didn't, somebody else would," he said to himself.
