The Autobiography of a Slander by Edna Lyall

But whispering tongues can poison truth. COLERIDGE.

London in early September is a somewhat trying place. Mark Shrewsbury found it less pleasing in reality than in his visions during the dinner- party at Dulminster. True, his chambers were comfortable, and his type- writer was as invaluable a machine as ever, and his novel was drawing to a successful conclusion; but though all these things were calculated to cheer him, he was nevertheless depressed. Town was dull, the heat was trying, and he had never in his life found it so difficult to settle down to work. He began to agree with the Preacher, that "of making many books there is no end," and that, in spite of his favourite "Remington's perfected No. 2," novel-writing was a weariness to the flesh. Soon he drifted into a sort of vague idleness, which was not a good, honest holiday, but just a lazy waste of time and brains. I was pleased to observe this, and was not slow to take advantage of it.