"I never knew that even moral elephants had taken up agriculture seriously."
James blew all the ashes of his pipe over Beyle in a gust of contempt, and rose from his chair.
"The smirk!" he cried. "The traditional British smirk! The gerumky-gerum horse-laugh! British humor! Ha-ha! Begotten by Punch out of Mrs. Grundy with the Spectator for godfather. 'Go to, you have made me mad.'"
"It's a pity you can't tell me about your new book without flying into a rage," John said, mildly. "You haven't told me yet when it's to appear."
"My fourteen readers aren't languishing. But to repay politeness by politeness, my book will come out in March."
"I'm looking forward to it," John declared. "Have you got good terms from Worrall?"
"As good terms as a consumptive bankrupt might expect from Shylock. What does the British public care for criticism? You should hear me reading the proofs to Beatrice. You should really have the pleasure of watching her face, and listening to her comments. Do you know why Beatrice goes to church? I'll tell you. She goes to indulge in a debauch of the accumulated yawns of the week."
"Hush, here she is," John warned him.
James laughed again.
"Johnnie, you're impayable. Your sensitiveness to Beatrice betrays the fount of your success. You treat the British public with just the same gentlemanly gurgle. And above all you're a good salesman. That's where George failed when he tried whisky on commission."