It was not a question to be settled quite offhand; she delayed her answer slightly, then, with a gravity appropriate to the literary occasion, temporized: “Well, since Victor Hugo is dead, it’s hard to say just who is the best.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “We get that in the English course in college. There aren’t any great authors any more. I expect probably Swinburne’s the best.”
She hesitated. “Perhaps; but more as a poet.”
He assented. “Yes, that’s so. I expect he would be classed more as a poet. Come to think of it, I believe he’s dead, too. I’m not sure, though; maybe it was Beerbohm Tree—somebody like that. I’ve forgotten; but, anyway, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean poetry; I meant who do you think writes the best books? Mrs. Humphry Ward?”
“Yes, she’s good, and so’s Henry James.”
“I’ve never read anything by Henry James. I guess I’ll read some of his this summer. What’s the best one to begin on?”
The exquisite pink of her cheeks extended its area almost imperceptibly. “Oh, any one. They’re all pretty good. Do you care for Nature?”
“Sure thing,” he returned quickly. “Do you?”
“I love it!”
“So do I. I can’t do much for mathematics, though.”