Basil
had been spoilt by his mother, who considered him a genius,
and had produced a book of weak verse. Juliet was fond of her
brother, but she saw his faults and tried to correct them.
She wished to make him more of a man and less of an artistic
fraud, for the young man really did possess talents. But the
hothouse atmosphere of "The Shrine of the Muses!" would have
ruined anyone possessed of genius, unless he had a strong
enough nature to withstand the sickly adulation and false
judgments of those who came there. Basil was not strong. He
was pleasant, idle, rather vain, and a little inclined to be
dissipated. Mrs. Octagon did not know that Basil was fond of
dissipation. She thought him a model young Oxford man, and
hoped he would one day be Laureate of England.
Afternoon tea was just ended, and several of Mrs. Octagon's
friends had departed. Basil and Mr. Octagon were out, but the
latter entered with a paper in his hand shortly after the last
visitor took her leave. Mrs. Octagon, in a ruby-colored
velvet, looking majestic and self-satisfied, was enthroned--
the word is not too strong--in an arm-chair, and Juliet was
seated opposite to her turning over the leaves of a new novel
produced by one of The Circle. It was beautifully printed and
bound, and beautifully written in "precious" English, but its
perusal did not seem to afford her any satisfaction. Her
attention wandered, and every now and then she looked at the
door as though expecting someone to enter.
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