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A bitter arraignment of the South as a whole is H.E. Tremain's Sectionalism Unmasked . The best book on the Appalachian South is Horace Kephart's Our Southern Highlanders . William Garrott Brown's The Lower South in American History contains some interesting matter.
So far I'm only hoping all people may, some day be friendly." Kitty was signaling frantically with her eyes, and in obedience I again performed as requested, for the third time turned to Mr. Garrott. "I heard a most interesting discussion the other day concerning certain present-day French writers. I wonder if you agree with Bernard Shaw that Brieux is the greatest dramatist since Moliere, or if "
Never before had he defended, even with satire, what he had told me a hundred times was folly on my part. He turned to Mr. Garrott. "Why on earth perfectly comfortable, supposedly Christian human beings should want personally to know anything about uncomfortable, unfit, under-paid ones " "Oh, but I think they ought to!" Again the pretty little creature in green chiffon nodded toward me.
"He tells me" I refused to be ignored "that he keeps an advance order for everything you write; buys your books as soon as they are published." "Buys them!" With the only quick movement he had made, Mr. Garrott turned to me. "I'd like to meet him. I'm glad to know there's somebody in America who buys and reads my books. Usually those who buy don't read, and those who read don't buy.
Garrott looked, as if not comprehending why, when he wished to speak, there should be chatter. Later, when again we were in the drawing-room, he continued to eye me speculatively, but he was permitted no opportunity to add to his inquiries; and when at last he was gone Kitty sat down, limp and worn at the strain she had been forced to endure.
He is one of your most intelligent and intense admirers. He has read, I think, everything you've written." Absorbed in his salad, evidently new and to his liking, Mr. Garrott was not impressed by, or appreciative of, my attempt to follow Kitty's instructions. With any reservations of my bad taste in talking shop I would have agreed, still, something was due Kitty.
"He seemed to know something of everything. She couldn't remember his name." "It's difficult to remember. He's a Russian Jew. Schrioski, is his name." At the head of the table I felt Kitty squirm, knew she was twisting her feet in fear and indignation. I turned to her English guest. "I have another friend who will be so glad to know I have met you, Mr. Garrott.
I tell you, ragmen, our time has come. There is nothing we cannot try." "Let us garrott every gendarme." "They keep well out of our way now, at least when single," another boasted. "We don't loot enough houses," a third grumbled. "What is the good of belonging to the nation?" "It is the sacred right of the citizen to oppress the oppressor," chimed Jude.
"I never agree with Bernard Shaw." Mr. Garrott frowned, and, taking up his wine-glass, drained it. Putting it down, he again stared at me. "I don't understand you. You don't look at all as I imagined you would."
Women ought to be kept behind latticed windows, given a lute, and supplied with veils, and if they ask for anything else, they should be taken from the window." "I don't agree with you." Mr. Garrott filled his fork with mushrooms and raised it to his mouth. "The Turks carry their restraint too far. Women should have more liberty than is given them in Turkey. They add color to life, add to its "
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