“That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. "The worst of folly," replied Blueskin, returning to the table, and taking up a glass; "and, to put an end to it, I shall drink the health of Jack Sheppard, the housebreaker, and success to him in all his enterprises. Heaven alone knows why. She never calls herself ‘Alcide. Jack Sheppard's Quarrel with Jonathan Wild. These were yarns! As he was about to slip the manuscripts into the envelope, something caught his eye: by Howard Spurlock. She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her. Yet an indiscriminating, wrong-headed world gave such fellows all sorts of distinctions.
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