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Excerpt: 'Out in the London Square a dismal November fog mingled with the gathering twilight, and blotted out the trees and the opposite houses. Mrs. Trelawney's drawing-room, where the fire burnt clear, and the softly shaded lamps shed a subdued light, was very pleasant by contrast. Mrs. Trelawney herself sat on one side of the fire in a low seat, beside which a small table was drawn up, covered with multi-colored silks for the embroidery she held. 'Are you very busy just now?' she asked presently of a man who sat leaning back in an arm-chair opposite her on the other side of the table. 'Busy? Stevens is never busy,' her husband assured her. He rose lazily from the sofa as he spoke, and sat down on the arm of his wife's chair. 'He sits in his den before a good fire, with a novel in one hand, and the editorial cigar in the other; and that's what he calls hard work!' Stevens groaned. 'May you never do anything harder! You don't mention the kind of novel over which I'm usually to be found gnashing my teeth!' 'Poor man! as bored and savage as all that?' Mrs. Trelawney asked, smiling. 'But you get a good one sometimes, of course.' 'Once in three months, perhaps. Oh! there are mitigations of misery, I allow. Last night, for instance, I reviewed a book that interested me. It was good; very good,' he added, meditatively.'