‘What language is that?’ said Charles.
‘What! Don’t you know the Morte d’Arthur! I thought every one did! Don’t you, Philip!’
‘I once looked into it. It is very curious, in classical English; but it is a book no one could read through.’
‘Oh!’ cried Guy, indignantly; then, ‘but you only looked into it. If you had lived with its two fat volumes, you could not help delighting in it. It was my boating-book for at least three summers.’
‘That accounts for it,’ said Philip; ‘a book so studied in boyhood acquires a charm apart from its actual merits.’
‘But it has actual merits. The depth, the mystery, the allegory—the beautiful characters of some of the knights.’
‘You look through the medium of your imagination,’ said Philip; but you must pardon others for seeing a great sameness of character and adventure, and for disapproving of the strange mixture of religion and romance.’
‘You’ve never read it,’ said Guy, striving to speak patiently.
‘A cursory view is sufficient to show whether a book will repay the time spent in reading it.’
‘A cursory view enable one to judge better than making it your study? Eh, Philip?’ said Charles.