He sat in a recess by the open window, which looked on the lake; and books were scattered on his table, and Maltravers was jotting down his criticisms on what he read, mingled with his impressions on what he saw.

It is the pleasantest kind of composition--the note-book of a man who studies in retirement, who observes in society, who in all things can admire and feel.

He was yet engaged in this easy task, when Cesarini was announced, and the young brother of the fair Teresa entered his apartment.
"I have availed myself soon of your invitation," said the Italian.
"I acknowledge the compliment," replied Maltravers, pressing the hand shyly held out to him.
"I see you have been writing--I thought you were attached to literature.
I read it in your countenance, I heard it in your voice," said Cesarini, seating himself.
"I have been idly beguiling a very idle leisure, it is true," said Maltravers.
"But you do not write for yourself alone--you have an eye to the great tribunals--Time and the Public." "Not so, I assure you honestly," said Maltravers, smiling.

"If you look at the books on my table, you will see that they are the great masterpieces of ancient and modern lore--these are studies that discourage tyros--" "But inspire them." "I do not think so.

Models may form our taste as critics, but do not excite us to be authors.