“You ought to read French in French,” said Tom, kindly authoritative.
“Can’t,” said Edwin.
“Bosh!” Charlie cried. “You were always spiffing in French. You could simply knock spots off me.”
“And do you read French in French, the Sunday?” Edwin asked.
“Well,” said Charlie, “I must say it was Thomas put me up to it. You simply begin to read, that’s all. What you don’t understand, you miss. But you soon understand. You can always look at a dictionary if you feel like it. I usually don’t.”
“I’m sure you could read French easily in a month,” said Tom. “They always gave a good grounding at Oldcastle. There’s simply nothing in it.”
“Really!” Edwin murmured, relinquishing the book. “I must have a shot, I never thought of it.” And he never thought of reading French for pleasure. He had construed Xavier de Maistre’s “Voyage autour de ma Chambre” for marks, assuredly not for pleasure. “Are there any books in this style to be got on that bookstall in Hanbridge Market?” he inquired of Tom.
“Sometimes,” said Tom, wiping his spectacles. “Oh yes!”
It was astounding to Edwin how blind he had been to the romance of existence in the Five Towns.
“It’s all very well,” observed Charlie reflectively, fingering one or two of the other volumes—“it’s all very well, and Victor Hugo is Victor Hugo; but you can say what you like—there’s a lot of this that’ll bear skipping, your worships.”