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2 Chapter 1: Databases and Database Users

1.11 - Give some additional views that may be needed by other user groups for the database
shown in Figure 1.2.

Answer:
(a) A view that groups all the students who took each section and gives each student's
grade. This may be useful for printing the grade report for each section for the
university administration's use.

(b) A view that gives the number of courses taken and the GPA (grade point average) for
each student. This may be used to determine honors students.

1.12 – Cite some examples of integrity constraints that you think can apply to the database
shown in Figure 1.2.

Answer:
We give a few constraints expressed in English. Following each constraint, we give its
type in the relational database terminology that will be covered in Chapter 6, for
reference purposes.

(a) The StudentNumber should be unique for each STUDENT record (key constraint).

(b) The CourseNumber should be unique for each COURSE record (key constraint).

(c) A value of CourseNumber in a SECTION record must also exist in some COURSE
record (referential integrity constraint).

(d) A value of StudentNumber in a GRADE_REPORT record must also exist in some

STUDENT record (referential integrity constraint).

(e) The value of Grade in a GRADE_REPORT record must be one of the values in the set
{A, B, C, D, F, I, U, S} (domain constraint).

(f) Every record in COURSE must have a value for CourseNumber (entity integrity
constraint).

(g) A STUDENT record cannot have a value of Class=2 (sophomore) unless the student
has completed a number of sections whose total course CreditHours is greater that 24
credits (general semantic integrity constraint).

1.13 - Give examples of systems in which it may make sense to use traditional file
processing instead of a database approach.

Answer:
1.1. Small internal utility to locate files Formatted: Bullets and Numbering
2.2. Small single user application that does not require security (such as a customized
calculator or a personal address and phone book)
3.3. Real-time navigation system (with heavy computation and very little data)
4.4. The students may think of others.

1.14 - Consider Figure 1.2.

Copyright © 2011 Pearson Education, Inc. Publishing as Pearson Addison-Wesley.

 Chapter 1: Databases and Database Users 3

a.a. If the name of the ‘CS’ (Computer Science) Department changes to ‘CSSE’ (Computer Formatted: Bullets and Numbering
Science and Software Engineering) Department and the corresponding prefix for the
course number also changes, identify the columns in the database that would need
to be updated.
b.b. Can you restructure the columns in COURSE, SECTION, and PREREQUISITE tables so
that only one column will need to be updated?

Answer:
a. The following columns will need to be updated.
Table Column(s)
STUDENT Major
COURSE CourseNumber and Department
SECTION CourseNumber
PREREQUISITE CourseNumber and PrerequisiteNumber

b. You should split the following columns into two columns:

Table Column Split Columns
COURSE CourseNumber CourseDept and CourseNum
SECTION CourseNumber CourseDept and CourseNum
PREREQUISITE CourseNumber CourseDept and CourseNum
PREREQUISITE PrerequisiteNumber PreReqDept and PreReqNum

Note that in the COURSE table, the column CourseDept will not be needed after the above
change, since it is redundant with the Department column.

Copyright © 2011 Pearson Education, Inc. Publishing as Pearson Addison-Wesley.

Other documents randomly have
different content
debts and difficulties, and leave your name and fame to be glorified
by a posterity whom you will never know!'
Valdis laughed; and Delicia, her eyes sparkling with fun, rose
from her chair and took up a newspaper from one of the side tables
close by.
'Listen!' she said. 'This appears in yesterday's Morning
Chanticleer, apropos of your humble servant—"The rampant lady-
novelist, known as Delicia Vaughan, is at it again. Not content with
having married 'Beauty' Carlyon of the Guards, who has just stepped
into his deceased brother's titled shoes and is now Lord Carlyon, she
is about to issue a scathing book on the manners and morals of the
present age, written, no doubt, in the usual hysterical style affected
by female poseurs in literature, whose works appeal chiefly to
residents up Brixton and Clapham way. We regret that 'Lady' Carlyon
does not see the necessity of 'assuming dignity,' even if she hath it
not, on her elevation, through her husband, to the circles of the
'upper ten.'" There, what do you think of that?' she asked gaily, as
she flung the journal down.
Valdis had risen, and stood confronting her with frowning brow
and flashing eyes. 'Think of it!' he said angrily, 'Why, that I should
like to horse-whip the dirty blackguard who wrote it!'
Delicia looked up at him in genuine amazement.
'Dear me!' she exclaimed playfully. 'But why so fierce, friend
Ernani? This is nothing—nothing at all to what the papers generally
say of me. I don't mind it in the least; it rather amuses me, on the
whole.'
'But don't you see how they mistake the position?' exclaimed
Valdis, impetuously. 'Don't you see that they are giving your husband
all the honour of elevation to the circles of the upper ten; as if you
were not there already by the merit of your genius alone! What
would Lord Carlyon be without you, even were he twenty times a
lord! He owes everything to you, and to your brain-work; he is
nothing in himself, and less than nothing! There,—I have gone too
far!'
Delicia stood very still; her face was pale, and her beautiful eyes
were cold in their shining as the gleam of stars in frosty weather.
'Yes, you have gone too far, Mr Valdis,' she said, 'and I am sorry
—for we were friends.'
She laid the slightest little emphasis on the word 'were,' and the
strong heart of the man who loved her sank heavily with a forlorn
sense of misery. But the inward rage that consumed him to think
that she—the patient, loving woman, who coined wealth by her own
unassisted work, while her husband spent the money and amused
himself with her earnings—should be publicly sneered at as a
nothing, and her worser-half toadied and flattered as if he were a
Yankee millionaire in his own right, was stronger than the personal
passion he entertained for her, and his manful resentment of the
position could not be repressed.
'I am sorry too, Lady Carlyon,' he said hoarsely, avoiding her
gaze, 'for I do not feel I can retract anything I have said.'
There was a silence. Delicia was deeply displeased; yet with her
displeasure there was mingled a vague sense of uneasiness and fear.
She found it difficult to maintain her self-possession; there was
something in the defiant look and attitude of Valdis that almost
moved her to give way to a sudden, undignified outburst of anger.
She was tempted to cry out to him, 'What is it you are hiding from
me? There is something—tell me all you know!'
But she bit her lips hard, and laid her hand on Spartan's collar
to somewhat conceal its trembling. Thus standing, she bent her
head with grave grace and courtesy.
'Good-bye, Mr Valdis!'
He started, and looked at her half imploringly. The simple words
were his dismissal, and he knew it. Because he had, in that
unguarded moment, spoken a word in dispraise of the glorious six
feet of husband, the doors of Delicia's house would henceforth be
closed to him, and the fair presence of Delicia herself would be
denied to his sight. It was a blow—but he was a man, and he took
his punishment manfully.
'Good-bye, Lady Carlyon,' he said. 'I deserve little consideration
at your hands, but I will ask you not to condemn me altogether as a
discourteous churl and boor, till—till you know a few things of which
you are now happily ignorant. Were I a selfish man, I should wish
you to be enlightened speedily concerning these matters; but being,
God knows! your true friend'—here his voice trembled—'I pray you
may remain a long time yet in the purest paradise known on earth—
the paradise of a loving soul's illusion. My hand shall not destroy one
blossom in your fairy garden! In old days of chivalry, beautiful and
beloved women had champions to defend their honour and renown,
and fight for them if needful; and though the old days are no longer
with us, chivalry is not quite dead, so that if ever you need a
champion—heavens! what am I saying? No wonder you look
scornful! Lady Delicia Carlyon to need the championship of an actor!
The thing is manifestly absurd! You, in your position, can help me by
your influence, but I can do nothing to help you—if by chance you
should ever need help. I am talking wildly, and deepening my
offences in your eyes; perhaps, however, you will think better of me
some day. And so good-bye again—I cannot ask you to forgive me.
If ever you desire to see me once more, I will come at your
command—but not till then.'
Inflexibly she stood, without offering him her hand in farewell.
But he desperately caught that hand, and kissed it with the ardour
of an Ernani and Romeo intermingled, then he turned and left the
room. Delicia listened to his retreating footsteps as he descended
the stairs and passed into the hall below, then she heard the street
door close. A great sigh of relief broke from her lips; he was gone,—
this impertinent actor who had presumed to say that her husband
was 'nothing, and less than nothing'—he was gone, and he would
probably never come back. She looked down at Spartan, and found
the dog's eyes were turned up to hers in inquiring wonder and
sadness. As plainly as any animal could speak by mere expression,
he was saying,—
'What is the matter with Valdis? He is a friend of mine, and why
have you driven him away?'
'Spartan, dear,' she said, drawing him towards her, 'he is a very
conceited man, and he says unkind things about our dear master,
and we do not intend to let him come near us any more! These
great actors always get spoilt, and think they are lords almighty, and
presume to pass judgment on much better men than themselves.
Paul Valdis is being so run after and so ridiculously flattered that he
will soon become quite unbearable.'
 Spartan sighed profoundly; he was not entirely satisfied in his
canine mind. He gave one or two longing and wistful glances
towards the door, but his wandering thoughts were quickly recalled
to his immediate surroundings by the feeling of something warm and
wet dropping on his head. It was a tear,—a bright tear, fallen from
the beautiful eyes of his mistress,—and in anxious haste he pressed
his rough body close against her with a mute caress of inquiring
sympathy. In very truth Delicia was crying,—quietly and in a secret
way, as though ashamed to acknowledge her emotion even to
herself. As a rule, she liked to be able to give a reason for her
feelings, but on this occasion she found it impossible to make any
analysis of the cause of her tears. Yet they fell fast, and she wiped
them away quickly with a little filmy handkerchief as fine as a
cobweb, which Spartan, moved by a sudden desire to provide her
with some harmless distraction from melancholy, made uncouth
attempts to secure as a plaything. He succeeded so far in his clumsy
gambols as to bring the flicker of a smile on her face at last, whereat
he rejoiced exceedingly, and wagged his tail with a violence that
threatened to entirely dislocate that useful member. In a few
minutes she was quite herself again, and when her husband
returned to dinner, met him with the usual beautiful composure that
always distinguished her bearing, though there was an air of
thoughtful resolve about her which accentuated the delicate lines of
her features and made her look more intellectually classic than ever.
When she took her seat at table that evening, her statuesque
serenity, combined with her fair face, steadfast eyes, and rich hair
knotted loosely at the back of her well-shaped head, gave her so
much the aspect of something far superior to the ordinary run of
mortal women, that Carlyon, fresh from a game of baccarat, where
he had lost over three hundred pounds in a couple of hours, was
conscious of a smarting sense of undefinable annoyance.
'I wish you could keep our name out of the papers,' he said
suddenly, when dessert was placed before them, and the servants
had withdrawn; 'it is most annoying to me to see it constantly
cropping up in all manner of vulgar society paragraphs.'
She looked at him steadfastly.
'You used not to mind it so much,' she answered, 'but I am
sorry you are vexed. I wish I could remedy the evil, but
unfortunately I am quite powerless. When one is a public character,
the newspapers will have their fling; it cannot possibly be helped;
but if one is leading an honest life in the world, and has no
disgraceful secrets to hide, what does it matter after all?'
'I think it matters a great deal,' he grumbled, as he carefully
skinned the fine peach on his plate, and commenced to appreciate
its flavour. 'I hate to have my movements forestalled and advertised
by the Press. And, as far as you are concerned, I am sure I heartily
wish you were not a public character.'
She opened her eyes a little.
'Do you? Since when? Since you became Lord Carlyon? My dear
boy, if a trumpery little handle to your name is going to make you
ashamed of your wife's reputation as an author, I think it's a great
pity you ever succeeded to the title.'
'Oh, I know you don't care a bit about it,' he said, keeping his
gaze on the juicy peach; 'but other people appreciate it.'
'What other people?' queried Delicia, laughing. 'The droll little
units that call themselves "society?" I daresay they do appreciate it—
they have got nothing else to think or talk about but "he" and "she"
and "we" and "they." And yet poor old Mortlands, who was here this
afternoon, forgot all about this same wonderful title many times, and
kept on calling me "Miss Vaughan." Then he apologised, and said in
extenuation, that to add a "ladyship" to my name was "to gild
refined gold and paint the lily." That quotation has often been used
before under similar circumstances, but he gave it quite a new
flavour of gallantry.'
'The Mortlands family dates back to about the same period as
ours,' said Carlyon, musingly.
'As ours? Say as yours, my dear lord!' returned Delicia, gaily, 'for
I am sure I do not know where the Vaughans come from. I must go
down to the Heralds' College and see if I cannot persuade someone
in authority there to pick me out an ancestor who did great deeds
before the Carlyons ever existed! Ancestral glory is such a question
with you now, Will, that I almost wish I were the daughter of a
Chicago pork-packer.'
'Why?' asked Carlyon, a trifle gloomily.
'Why, because I could at any rate get up a past "Pilgrim Father"
if necessary. A present-day reputation is evidently not sufficient for
you.'
'I think the old days were best,' he said curtly.
'Yes? When the men kept the women within four walls, as cows
are kept in byres, and gave them just the amount of food they
thought they deserved, and beat them if they were rebellious? Well,
perhaps those times were pleasant, but I am afraid I should never
have appreciated them. I prefer to see things advancing—as they
are—and I like a civilisation which includes the education of women
as well as of men.'
'Things are advancing a great deal too quickly, in my opinion,'
said Carlyon, languidly, pouring out a glass of the choice claret
beside him. 'I should be inclined to vote for a little less rapid
progress, in regard to women.'
'Yet only the other day you were saying what a shame it was
that women could not win full academic honours like men; and you
even said that they ought to be given titles, in reward for their
services to Science, Art and Literature,' said Delicia. 'What has made
you change your opinion?'
He did not look up at her, but absently played with the crumbs
on the table-cloth.
'Well, I am not sure that it is the correct thing for women to
appear very prominently in public,' he said.
A momentary contraction of Delicia's fine brows showed that a
touch of impatience ruffled her humour. But she restrained herself,
and said with perfect composure,—
'I am afraid I don't quite follow your meaning, unless, perhaps,
your words apply to the new dancer, La Marina?'
He gave a violent start, and with a sudden movement of his
hand upset his wine glass. Delicia watched the red wine staining the
satiny whiteness of the damask table-cloth without any exclamation
or sign of annoyance. Her heart was beating fast, because through
her drooping lashes she saw her husband's face, and read there an
expression that was strange and new to her.
'Oh, I know what has happened,' he said fiercely, and with
almost an oath, as he strove to wipe off the drops of Chateau Lafite
that soiled his cuff as well as the table-cloth. 'That woman Lefroy
has been here telling tales and making mischief! I saw her, with her
crew of social rowdies, at the Savoy the other night....'
'And she saw you!' interpolated Delicia, smiling.
'Well, what if she did?' he snapped out irritably. 'I was
introduced to La Marina by Prince Golitzberg—you know that
German fellow—and he asked me to take her off his hands. He had
promised her a supper at the Savoy, and at the last moment he was
sent for to go to his wife, who was seized with sudden illness. I
could not refuse to oblige him; he's a decent sort of chap. Then, of
course, as luck would have it, in comes that spoil-sport of a Lefroy
and makes all this rumpus!'
'My dear Will!' expostulated Delicia, in gentle amazement, 'what
are you talking about? Where is the rumpus? What has Mrs Lefroy
done? She simply mentioned to me to-day that she had seen you at
the Savoy with this Marina, and there the matter ended, and, as far
as I am concerned, there it will for ever end.'
'That is all nonsense!' said Carlyon, still wiping his cuff. 'You
know you are put out, or you wouldn't look at me in the way you
do!'
Delicia laughed.
'What way am I looking?' she demanded merrily. 'Pray, my dear
boy, don't be so conceited as to imagine I mind your taking the
Marina, or any amount of Marinas, to supper at the Savoy, if that
kind of thing amuses you! Surely you don't suppose that I bring
myself into comparison with "ladies" of Marina's class, or that I could
be jealous of such persons? I am afraid you do not know me yet,
Will, though we have spent such happy years together! You have
neither fathomed the depth of my love, nor taken the measure of my
pride! Besides,—I trust you!' She paused. Then rising from the table,
she handed him the little silver box containing his cigars. 'Smoke off
your petulance, dear boy!' she said, 'and join me upstairs when you
are ready. We go to the Premier's reception to-night, remember.'
Her hand rested for a moment on his shoulder with a caressing
touch; anon, humming a little tune under her breath, and followed
by Spartan, who never let her go out of his sight for a moment if he
could help it, she left the room. Ascending the staircase, she
stopped on the threshold of her study and looked in with a vague air,
as though the place had suddenly grown unfamiliar. There,
immediately facing her, smiled the pictured lineaments of
Shakespeare, that immortal friend of man; her favourite books
greeted her with all the silent yet persuasive eloquence of their well-
known and deeply-honoured titles; the electric lights, fitted up to
represent small stars in the ceiling, were not turned on, and only the
young moon peered glimmeringly through the lattice window,
shedding a pale lustre on the marble features of the 'Antinous.'
Standing quite still, she gazed at all these well-known objects of her
daily surroundings with a curious sense of strangeness, Spartan
staring up wonderingly at her the while.
'What is it that is wrong with me?' she mused. 'Why do I feel as
if I were suddenly thrust out of my usual peace, and made to take a
part in the common and mean disputes of petty-minded men and
women?'
She waited another minute, then apparently conquering
whatever emotion was at work within her, she pressed the ivory
handle which diffused light on all visible things, and entered the
room with a quiet step and a half-penitent look, as of regret for
having given offence to some invisible spirit-monitor.
'Oh, you dear, dear friends!' she said, approaching the
bookshelves, and softly apostrophising the volumes ranged there as
if they were sentient personages, 'I am afraid I do not consult you
half enough! You are always with me, ready to give me the soundest
advice on any subject under the sun; advice founded on sage
experience, too! Tell me something now, out of your stores of
wisdom, to stop this foolish little aching at my heart—this irritating,
selfish, suspicious trouble which is quite unworthy of me, as it is
unworthy of anyone who has had the high privilege of learning great
lessons from such teachers as you are! It is not as if I were a
woman whose sole ideas of life are centred on dress and
domesticity, or one of those unhappy, self-tormenting creatures who
cannot exist without admiration and flattery; I am, I think and hope,
differently constituted, and mean to try for great things, even if I
never succeed in attaining them. But in trying for greatness, one
must not descend to littleness—save me from this danger, my dear
old-world comrades, if you can, for to-night I am totally unlike
myself. There are thoughts in my brain that might have excited
Xantippe, but which should never trouble Delicia, if to herself Delicia
prove but true!'
And she raised her eyes, half smiling, to the meditative
countenance of Shakespeare. 'Excellent and "divine Williams," you
must excuse me for fitting your patriotic line on England to my
unworthy needs; but why would you make yourself so eminently
quotable?' She paused, then took up a book lying on her desk. 'Here
is an excellent doctor for a sick, petulant child such as I am—Marcus
Aurelius. What will you say to me, wise pagan? Let me see,' and
opening a page at random, her eyes fell on the words, 'Do not
suppose you are hurt, and your complaint ceases. Cease your
complaint and you are not hurt.'
She laughed, and her face began to light up with all its usual
animation.
'Excellent Emperor! What a wholesome thrashing you give me!
Anything more?' And she turned over a few pages, and came upon
one of the imperial moralist's most coolly-dictatorial assertions.
'What an easy matter it is to stem the current of your imagination, to
discharge a troublesome or improper thought, and at once return to
a state of calm!'
'I don't know about that, Marcus,' she said. 'It is not exactly an
"easy" matter to stem the current of imagination, but certainly it's
worth trying;' and she read on, 'To-day I rushed clear out of
misfortune, or rather, I threw misfortune from me; for, to speak the
truth, it was not outside, and never came any nearer than my own
fancy.'
She closed the book smilingly—the beautiful equanimity of her
disposition was completely restored. She left her pretty writing den,
bidding Spartan remain there on guard—a mandate he was
accustomed to, and which he obeyed instantly, though with a deep
sigh, his mistress's 'evenings out' being the chief trouble of his
otherwise enviable existence. Delicia, meantime, went to dress for
the Premier's reception, and soon slipped into the robe she had had
designed for herself by a famous firm of Indian embroiderers;—a
garment of softest white satin, adorned with gold and silver thread,
and pearls thickly intertwined, so as to present the appearance of a
mass of finely-wrought jewels. A single star of diamonds glittered in
her hair, and she carried a fan of natural lilies, tied with white
ribbon. Thus attired, she joined her husband, who stood ready and
waiting for her in the drawing-room. He glanced up at her somewhat
shamefacedly.
'You look your very best this evening, Delicia,' he said.
She made him a sweeping curtsey, and smiled.
'My lord, your favouring praise doth overwhelm me!' she
answered. 'Is it not meet and right that I should so appear as to be
deemed worthy of the house of Carlyon!
He put his arm round her waist and drew her to him. It was
curious, he thought, how fresh her beauty seemed! And how the
men in his 'set' would have burst into a loud guffaw of coarse
laughter if any of them had thought that such was his opinion of his
wife's charm—his own wife, to whom he had been fast wedded for
over three years! According to the rules of 'modern' morality, one
ought in three years to have had enough of one's lawful wife, and
find a suitable 'soul' wherewith to claim 'affinity.'
'Delicia,' he said, playing idly with the lilies of her fan, 'I am
sorry you were vexed about the Marina woman—'
She interrupted him by laying her little white-gloved fingers on
his lips.
'Vexed? Oh, no, Will, not vexed. Why should I be? Pray don't let
us talk about it any more; I have almost forgotten the incident.
Come! It's time we started!'
And in response to the oddly penitent, half-sullen manner of the
'naughty boy' he chose to assume, she kissed him. Whereupon he
tried that one special method of his, which had given him the victory
in his wooing of her, the Passionate Outbreak; and murmuring in his
rich voice that she was always the 'one woman in the world,' the
'angel of his life,' and altogether the very crown and summit of
sweet perfection, he folded her in his arms with all a lover's fervour.
And she, clinging to him, forgot her doubts and fears, forgot the
austere observations of Marcus Aurelius, forgot the triumphs of her
own intellectual career, forgot everything, in fact, but that she was
the blindly-adoring devotee of a six-foot Guardsman, whom she had
herself set up as a 'god' on the throne of the Ideal, and whom she
worshipped through such a roseate cloud of sweet self-abnegation
that she was unable to perceive how poor a fetish her idol was after
all—made of nothing but the very commonest clay!

CHAPTER III

The smoking-room of the 'Bohemian' was full of a motley collection

of men of the literary vagabond type—reporters, paragraphists,
writers of penny dreadfuls, reeled off tape-wise from the thin spools
of smoke-dried masculine brains; stray actors, playwrights anxious to
translate the work of some famous foreigner and so get fastened on
to his superior coat-tails, 'adapters' desirous of dramatising some
celebrated novel and pocketing all the profits, anxious 'proposers' of
new magazines looking about for 'funds' to back them up, and
among all these an extremely casual sprinkling of the brilliant and
successful workers in art and literature, who were either honorary
members, or who had allowed their names to stand on the
committee in order to give 'prestige' to a collection which would
otherwise be termed the 'rag-tag and bob-tail' of literature. The
opinions of the 'Bohemian,'—the airily idiotic theories with which the
members disported themselves, and furnished food for laughter to
the profane—were occasionally quoted in the newspapers, which of
course gave the club a certain amount of importance in its own
eyes, if in nobody else's. And the committee put on what is called a
considerable amount of 'side'; now and then affecting to honour
some half-and-half celebrity by asking him to a Five-Shilling dinner,
and dubbing him the 'guest of the evening,' he meantime gloomily
taking note of the half-cold, badly-cooked poorness of the meal, and
debating within himself whether it would be possible to get away in
time to have a chop 'from the grill' somewhere on his way home.
The 'Bohemian' had been a long time getting started, owing to the
manner in which the gentlemen who were 'in' persistently black-
balled every new aspirant for the honours of membership. The cause
of this arose from the chronic state of nervous jealousy in which the
'Bohemians' lived. To a certain extent, and as far as their personal
animosities would permit, they were a 'Mutual Admiration Society,'
and dreaded the intrusion of any stranger who might set himself to
discover 'their tricks and their manners.' They had a lawyer of their
own, whose business it was to arrange the disputes of the club,
should occasion require his services, and they also had a doctor, a
humorous and very clever little man, who was fond of strolling about
the premises in the evening, and taking notes for the writing of a
medical treatise to be entitled 'Literary Dyspepsia, and the Passion of
Envy considered in its Action on the Spleen and Other Vital Organs,'
a book which he justly considered would excite a great deal of
interest among his professional compeers. But in spite of the
imposing Committee of Names, the lawyer and the doctor, the
'Bohemian' did not pay. It struggled on, hampered with debts and
difficulties, like most of its members. It gave smoking-concerts
occasionally, for which it charged extra, and twice a year it admitted
ladies to its dinners, during which banquets speeches were made
distinctly proving to the fair sex that they had no business at all to
be present. Still, with every advantage that a running fire of satirical
comment could give it in the way of notoriety, the 'Bohemian' was
not a prosperous concern; and no Yankee Bullion-Bag seemed
inclined to take it up or invest in the chances of its future. A more
sallow, sour, discontented set of men than were congregated in the
smoking-room on the particular evening now in question could
hardly be found anywhere between London and the Antipodes, and
only the little doctor, leaning back in a lounge-chair with his neatly-
shaped little legs easily crossed, and a smile on his face, seemed to
enjoy his position as an impartial spectator of the scene. His smile,
however, was one of purely professional satisfaction; he was making
studies of a 'subject' in the person of a long-haired 'poet,' who wrote
his own reviews. This son of the Muses was an untidy, dirty-looking
man, and his abundant locks irresistibly reminded one of a black
goat-skin door-mat, worn in places where reckless visitors had wiped
their muddy boots thereon. No doubt this poet washed occasionally,
but his skin was somewhat of the peculiar composition complained
of by Lady Macbeth—'All the perfumes of Arabia' would neither
cleanse nor 'sweeten' it.
'Jaundice,' murmured the little doctor, pleasantly; 'I'll give him a
year, and he'll be down with its worst form. Too much smoke, too
much whisky, combined mentally with conceit, spite, and the
habitual concentration of the imagination on self; and no gaiety, wit
or kindness to temper the mixture. All bad for the health—as bad as
bad can be! But, God bless my soul, what does it matter? He'd never
be missed!'
And he rubbed his hands jubilantly, smiling still.
Meanwhile the rhymester thus doomed was seated at a distant
table and writing of himself thus,—
'If Shelley was a poet, if Byron was a poet, if we own
Shakespeare as a king of bards and dramatists, then Mr Aubrey
Grovelyn is a poet also, eminently fitted to be the comrade of these
immortals. Inspired thought, beauty of diction, ease and splendour
of rhythm distinguish Aubrey Grovelyn's muse as they distinguish
Shakespeare's utterances; and in bestowing upon this gifted singer
the praise that is justly due to him, we feel we are rendering a
service to England in being among the first to point out the glorious
promise and value of a genius who is destined to outsoar all his
contemporaries in far-reaching originality and grandeur of design.'
Finishing this with a bold dash, he put it in an envelope and
addressed it to the office of the journal on which he was employed
and known, simply as Alfred Brown. Mr Alfred Brown was on the
staff of that journal as a critic; and as Brown he praised himself in
the person of Aubrey Grovelyn. The great editor of the journal, being
half his time away shooting, golfing, or otherwise amusing himself,
didn't know anything about either Grovelyn or Brown, and didn't
care. And the public, seeing Grovelyn described as a Shakespeare,
promptly concluded he must be a humbug, and avoided his books as
cautiously as though they had been labelled 'Poison.' Hence Brown-
Aubrey-Grovelyn's chronic yellow melancholy—his poems wouldn't
'sell.' He crammed his eulogistic review of his own latest production
into his pocket, and went over to the doctor, from whose cigar he
kindled his own.
'Have you seen the papers this evening?' he asked languidly,
dropping into a chair next to the club's 'Galen,' and running one
skinny hand through his door-mat curls.
'I have just glanced through them,' replied the doctor,
indifferently. 'I never do read anything but the telegrams.'
The poet raised his eyebrows superciliously.
'So? You don't allow your mind to be influenced by the ebb and
flow of the human tide of events,' he murmured vaguely. 'But I
should have thought you would have observed the ridiculous
announcement concerning the new book by that horrid woman,
Delicia Vaughan. It is monstrous! A sale of one hundred thousand
copies; it's an infernal lie!'
'It's a damnation truth!' said a pleasant voice, suddenly, in the
mildest of accents; and a good-looking man with a pretty trick of
twirling his moustache, and an uncomfortable way of flashing his
eyes, squared himself upright in front of both physician and poet.
'I'm the publisher, and I know!'
There was a silence, during which Mr Grovelyn smiled angrily
and re-arranged his door-mat. 'When,' proceeded the publisher,
sweetly, 'will you enable me to do the same thing for you, Mr
Grovelyn?'
The doctor, whose name was Dalley, laughed; the poet frowned.
'Sir,' said Grovelyn, 'my work does not appeal to this age, which
is merely prolific in the generating of idiots; I trust myself and my
productions to the justice of posterity.'
'Then you must appeal to posterity's publishers as well, mustn't
he, Mr Granton?' suggested Doctor Dalley, with a humorous twinkle
in his eyes, addressing the publisher, who, being the head of a
wealthy and influential firm, was regarded by all the penniless
scribblers in the 'Bohemian' with feelings divided betwixt awe and
fear.
'He must, indeed!' said Granton. 'Personally, I prefer to
speculate in Delicia Vaughan, now Lady Carlyon. Her new book is a
masterpiece; I am proud to be the publisher of it. And upon my
word, I think the public show capital taste in "rushing" for it.'
'Pooh, she can't write!' sneered Grovelyn. 'Did you ever know a
woman who could?'
'I have heard of George Eliot,' hinted Dalley.
'An old hen, that imagined it could crow!' said the poet, with
intense malignity. 'She'll be forgotten as though she never existed, in
a little while; and as for that Vaughan woman, she's several grades
lower still, and ought only to be employed for the London Journal!'
Granton looked at him, and bit his lips to hide a smile.
'It strikes me you'd rather like to stand in Lady Carlyon's shoes,
all the same, Mr Grovelyn,' he said.
Grovelyn laughed, with such a shrill sound in the laughter, that
Dr Dalley immediately made a mental note entitled 'Splenetic
Hysteria,' and watched him with professional eagerness.
'Not I,' he exclaimed. 'Everybody knows her husband writes
more than half her books!'
'That's a lie!' said a full, clear voice behind them. 'Her husband
is as big an ass as you are!'
 Grovelyn turned round fiercely, and confronted Paul Valdis.
There was a silence of surprise and consternation. Several men rose
from various parts of the room, and came to see what was going on.
Dr Dalley rubbed his hands in delightful anticipation of a 'row,' but
no one spoke or moved to interfere. The two men, Grovelyn and
Valdis, stood face to face; the one mean-featured, with every
movement of his body marked by a false and repulsive affectation,
the other a manly and heroic figure distinguished by good looks and
grace of bearing, with the consciousness of right and justice flashing
in his eyes.
'You accuse me of telling a lie, Mr Valdis,' hissed Grovelyn, 'and
you call me an ass!'
'I do,' retorted Valdis, coolly. 'It is certainly a lie that Lord
Carlyon writes half his wife's books. I had a letter from him once,
and found out by it that he didn't known how to spell, much less
express himself grammatically. And of course you are an ass if you
think he could do anything in the way of literature; but you don't
think so—you only say so out of pure jealousy of a woman's fame!'
'You shall answer for this, Mr Valdis!' exclaimed Grovelyn, the
curls of his door-mat coiffure bristling with rage. 'By Heaven, you
shall answer for it!'
'When you please, and how you please,' returned Valdis,
composedly; 'Now and here, if you like, and if the members permit
fighting on the club premises.'
Exclamations of 'No, no!' mingled with laughter, partially
drowned his voice. Everyone at the 'Bohemian' knew and dreaded
Valdis; he was the most influential person on the committee, and the
most dangerous if offended.
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