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Updated: June 15, 2025
"How odd it is that his characters talk so well in his books, and that he is such a stick!" thought Mrs. Selldon. "I suppose it's the effect of cathedral-town atmosphere," reflected the author. "I suppose he is eaten up with conceit and won't trouble himself to talk to me," thought the hostess. By the time the fish had been removed they had arrived at a state of mutual contempt.
Mindful of the reputation they had to keep up, however, they exerted themselves a little more while the entrees went round. "Seldom reads, I should fancy, and never thinks!" reflected the author, glancing at Mrs. Selldon's placid unintellectual face. "What on earth can I say to her?" "Very unpractical, I am sure," reflected Mrs. Selldon.
"Dear me," she exclaimed, throwing aside the newspaper she had just taken up, "I ought to write to Mrs. Selldon at Dulminster about that G.F.S. girl!" As a matter of fact she ought not to have written then, the letter might well have waited till the morning, and she was over-tired and needed rest.
I sought out Mark Shrewsbury. He was at his chambers in Pump Court working away with his type-writer; he had a fancy for working the old year out and the new year in, and now he was in the full swing of that novel which had suggested itself to his mind when Mrs. Selldon described the rich and mysterious foreigner who had settled down at Ivy Cottage.
She was so delighted to have "got on well," as she expressed it, with the literary lion, and by this time dessert was on the table, and soon the tedious ceremony would be happily over. "But how did he escape?" asked Mark Shrewsbury, still with the thought of "copy" in his mind. "I don't know the details," said Mrs. Selldon. "Probably they are only known to himself.
"I am sorry to hear that," he said, becoming all at once quite sympathetic and approachable. "I don't like the thought of those simple, unsophisticated people being hoodwinked by a scoundrel." "No; is it not sad?" said Mrs. Selldon. "Such pleasant, hospitable people as they are! Do you remember the Morleys?" "Oh yes! There was a pretty daughter who played tennis well." "Quite so Gertrude Morley.
"I should be less afraid to talk if there were not always the horrible idea that he may take down what one says," thought Mrs. Selldon. "I should be less bored if she would only be her natural self," reflected the author. "And would not talk prim platitudes." "Have you been abroad this summer?" inquired Mrs. Selldon, making another spasmodic attempt at conversation.
"No, I detest travelling," replied Mark Shrewsbury. "When I need change I just settle down in some quiet country district for a few months somewhere near Windsor, or Reigate, or Muddleton. There is nothing to my mind like our English scenery." "Oh, do you know Muddleton?" exclaimed Mrs. Selldon. "Is it not a charming little place? I often stay in the neighbourhood with the Milton- Cleaves."
She assented with great cheerfulness and alacrity; and over that invaluable topic, which is always so safe, and so congenial, and so ready to hand, they grew quite friendly, and the conversation for fully five minutes was animated. An interval of thought followed. "How wearisome is society!" reflected Mrs. Selldon.
Well, would you believe it, this miserable fortune-hunter is actually either engaged to her or on the eve of being engaged! Poor Mrs. Milton-Cleave is so unhappy about it, for she knows, on the best authority, that Mr. Zaluski is unfit to enter a respectable house." "Perhaps he is really some escaped criminal?" suggested Mr. Shrewsbury, tentatively. Mrs. Selldon hesitated.
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