“Not very. There’s the Church-set—they go to Mothers’ Meetings and Infant Welfare Societies. It’s not very exciting. Then there’s the Bridge-set—they ’re rather mixed up together, those two. I can’t play bridge. And there’s the literary set. We’re that,” she added, rather bitterly.

“Can’t stand literary shop. I say, that’s a bad brick, but you know what I mean! I’m not clever enough, what? Don’t know what to say when people start talking ’bout ‘technique,’ an’ form, an’ ‘influence of the Russian school.’ You know the sort of stuff.”

“Yes, I know.” She did know. You could not live a day Stephen and Cynthia and Nina and the Tyrells without knowing.

“Daresay it’s awfully interesting if you’re in the trade yourself. It’s all Greek to me. I know when I like a book, but I can’t tell you what the style’s like, or what the publisher’s name is. Don’t see that it matters, personally. Can’t say that I often remember the blinking author’s name.”

“I don’t see that it matters either,” Elizabeth sighed. “But the first thing Ste—any writer asks about a book is, Who published it?”

“Awful strain of the what-you-may-call-it. Intellect. Good word, that. Expect you’ll start writing yourself soon. Force of example, what?”

“Goodness, no! I can’t even write a decent letter, and my taste in literature is had.”

“Lord! Is it? Daren’t speak about mine to Stephen. I like a good yarn—exciting, an’ not too long. Can’t stand these—what d’you call it?—psy—psychological novels, whatever that may be. Lot of rot, I call it.”

“Introspection,” said Elizabeth. “I know. I like Dickens and Mrs. Humphry Ward, and—books like theirs. Not too deep. I tried to read Meredith a little while ago.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s dreadful,” Elizabeth said. “I couldn’t make head or tail of him. And Hardy—well, I don’t approve of the sort of book he writes.”

“Ah, quite!” Wendell answered profoundly.

“And Bernard Shaw, and Chesterton and Galsworthy —I just can’t get on with them.”

“Shouldn’t try.”

“Oh, I’ve given it up! I’m too old to be re-educated. I don’t really appreciate Stephen’s books. Not in the proper way.”

“I tackled one of ’em the other day. Bit beyond me. Awfully clever, of course, an’ that sort of thing.”

“Yes, he’s very clever,” Elizabeth agreed.

“Always feel a bit of a fool when Stephen’s about,” he confided. “Jolly nice chap, though.”

“I think I do too,” she said, half to herself.

“Oh, I say, what priceless rot. I bet you’ve got a lot tucked away under that topping hair of yours, Betty.”

She blushed. She was flattered, but she felt vaguely that she ought not to allow Wendell to say these things.