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I proceed on the assumption that fiction is poetry, and that poetry deals only with the noble and the pure." "Yes," said Cecily, as he paused for a moment, "I see that it would take too long. You must deal with so many prejudices such, for example, as that which supposes 'King Lear' and 'Othello' to be poems." Mr. Bickerdike began a reply, but it was too late; Mrs.
Elgar was punishing him for forcing her to speak of his book, he was unable to change the topic and so win her approval for his tact. In the endeavour to seem at ease, he became blunt. "And what has your judgment to say on the subject?" "I think I have already told you, Mr. Bickerdike." "You mean by a romance a work that is not soiled with the common realism of to-day."
Madame Jacquelin, a stout and very plain woman, who told us anecdotes of George Sand; remind me to repeat them to-morrow. And Mr. Bickerdike, the pillar of idealism." "Bickerdike was there?" Elgar exclaimed, with an air of displeasure. "He didn't refer to his acquaintance with you. I wonder why not?" "Did you talk to the fellow?" "Rather pertly, I'm afraid.
Might not one hope for an invitation to madame's assemblies? A wonderful people, these English, after all. Mr. Bickerdike secured, after much impatience, the desired introduction. For reasons of his own, he made no mention of his earlier acquaintance with Elgar. Did she know of it? In any case she appeared not to, but spoke of things which did not interest Mr. Bickerdike in the least.
She should bid her stay at home and mind her baby." "By-the-bye, what truth is there in that story? The Naples affair, you know?" "N'en sais rien. But I hear odd things about her husband. Mr. Bickerdike knew him a few years ago. He ran through a fortune, and fell into most disreputable ways of life. Somebody was saying that he got his living as 'bus-conductor, or something of the kind."
There was barely a perceptible movement of Cecily's brows. "I try to mean something as often as I speak," she said, in an amused tone. "In this ease it is a censure. You take the side of those who find fault with my idealism." "Not so; I simply form my own judgment." Mr. Bickerdike was nervous at all times in the society of a refined woman; Mrs.
"I pictured a very youthful man, with a face of effeminate beauty probably a hectic colour in his cheeks." "Such men don't write 'the novel of the season. This gentleman is very shrewd; he gauges the public. Some day, if he sees fit, he will write a brutal book, and it will have merit." Mr. Bickerdike unfortunately did not speak French, so M. Silvenoire was unable to exchange ideas with him.
At length he was driven to bring forward the one subject on which he desired her views. "Have you, by chance, read my book, Mrs. Elgar?" M. Silvenoire would have understood her smile; the Englishman thought it merely amiable, and prepared for the accustomed compliment. "Yes, I have read it, Mr. Bickerdike. It seemed to me a charmingly written romance."
"I am willing to mean that." "But you will admit, Mrs. Elgar, that my mode of fiction has as much to say for itself as that which you prefer?" "In asking for one admission you take for granted another. That is a little confusing." It was made sufficiently so to Mr. Bickerdike.
Irene Delph was talking with a young married lady named Mrs. Travis; they both regarded Mr. Bickerdike with close scrutiny. "Who could have imagined such an author for the book!" murmured the girl, in wonder. "I could perfectly well," murmured back Mrs. Travis, with a smile which revealed knowledge of humanity.
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