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Updated: May 19, 2025
If one could do that, in a way to carry conviction, assent, and reality, to convey to the reader's senses a recognition of genuine actual human being, one might claim to be a true artist. I have found an admirable book for reading in bed this little anthology of prose, collected by Pearsall Smith.
Unless you desire to be an accessory to a murder, You had better talk quick!" An hour later Ford passed slowly through Sowell Street in a taxicab, and, finding Cuthbert on guard, signalled him to follow. In Wimpole Street the cab drew up to the curb, and Cuthbert entered it. "I have found Pearsall," said Ford. "He is in No. 40 with Prothero." He then related to Cuthbert what had happened.
Gerridge had explained that when the Police called, his first thought was to protect the good name of his hotel. He had denied any knowledge of Pearsall only because he no longer was a guest, and, as he supposed Pearsall had passed out of his life, he saw no reason, why, through an arrest and a scandal, his hotel should be involved.
In connecting Pearsall with Gerridge's, both the police and himself had failed. Of this there were three possible explanations: that the girl who wrote the letter was in error, that the letter was a hoax, that the proprietor of the hotel, for some reason, was protecting Pearsall, and had deceived both Ford and Scotland Yard.
When the 'phone was answered, he requested that a message be delivered to Mr. Pearsall. "Please tell him," he asked, "that the clothes he ordered are ready to try on." He was informed that no one by that name was at the hotel. In a voice of concern Ford begged to know when Mr. Pearsall had gone away, and had he left any address. "He was with you three weeks ago," Ford insisted.
From this new view-point Ford regarded his adversary with increased wariness; he watched him as he would a mad dog. He regretted extremely he had not brought his revolver. With his automatic pistol still covering Ford, Prothero spoke to Pearsall. "I found him," he recited, as though testing the story he would tell later, "prowling through my house at night.
If your mind needs phosphorus, try "Trivia," by Logan Pearsall Smith. If your mind needs a whiff of strong air, blue and cleansing, from hilltops and primrose valleys, try "The Story of My Heart," by Richard Jefferies. If you need "all manner of Irish," and a relapse into irresponsible freakishness, try "The Demi-Gods," by James Stephens. It is a better book than one deserves or expects.
Pearsall Smith's book on the English language one admiring reader was pleased to find 'débris' also without italics, although with the retention of the French accent. Perhaps the time is not far distant when the best writers will cease to stigmatize a captured word with the italics which are a badge of servitude and which proclaim that it has not yet been enfranchised into our language.
For Pearsall, his tone seemed to bear an alarming meaning. He sprang toward Prothero, and laid both hands upon his disengaged arm. "For God's sake," he pleaded, "come away! He can't hurt you not alive; but dead, he'll hang you hang us both. We must go, now, this moment." He dragged impotently at the left arm of the giant. "Come!" he begged.
"I know absolutely nothing about pictures myself, and Pearsall says you are one of the best judges in Europe." "He ought to know," chuckled old Teidelmann. "He's tried often enough to palm off rubbish onto me." "That last purchase of yours must have been a good thing for young " Hasluck mentioned the name of a painter since world famous; "been the making of him, I should say."
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