“You have so many books, Richard,” said Mrs. Dawson, looking about the room for the first time.
“Aren’t his shelves attractive,” assented Tommy with enthusiasm. “I think you would approve of everything there too, Mrs. Dawson, with the possible exception of this, which you undoubtedly know enough about to disapprove of.” He laughingly handed her a volume of “Degeneration” from the table. Dawson could have slain him had he not realised that all three fellows must be somewhat bewildered.
“Isn’t it—isn’t it—thick—” faltered Mrs. Dawson.
“What is one to think of a creature like Nordau?” asked Bigelow, theatrically; “that is to say, of course, beyond his exquisitely unconscious sense of humour.” He had made this remark on several previous occasions, and its technique was, in consequence, becoming quite perfect. Mrs. Dawson looked helplessly at Dickey and said nothing. She was at least displaying what Charlie Bolo called “admirable savoir taire.”
When she opened the volume and leaned over to examine the title-page, Tommy gave the photograph on the mantelpiece a surreptitious glance. There was a more or less grotesque resemblance in it to the almost portly, middle-aged original, who was dressed with a quiet absence of taste and answered in a general way Tommy’s description of a superior woman. It was very embarrassing and inexplicable and altogether impossible. Tommy did not understand it—he did not understand anything any more, and only wished to get outside and pinch himself and Charley Bolo and Bigelow.
Dickey Dawson did most of the talking, and achieved thereby a dismal sort of success. His mother had introduced—or rather stumbled on—fallen over—the subject of books, and for a time it was as if Dawson had said to himself,—
“Books! books! what can I say of the origin, development, history, and present condition of books?” For he chattered incessantly about them—his own—Tommy’s—anybody’s. He told funny stories that were not in the least funny, about book agents, and was in the midst of a detailed description of a book-case when he realised he was making a fool of himself and stopped.
“I like reading,” mused Mrs. Dawson, as she mechanically turned the leaves of “Degeneration.” “I think it cultivates the observation.”
“I feel sometimes that it would be more advisable to cultivate blindness than observation,” answered Tommy. He was becoming reckless and got up to go.
Mrs. Dawson’s lips parted to say something, but Dickey broke in with,—