“Never mind, never mind.... Mrs. O’s been reading ... phew! You’re a lit’ry young lady—d’you know that French chap—Zola—Emmil Zola——” Mr. Orly glanced suspiciously.
“Yes” said Miriam.
“Like ’im?”
“Yes” said Miriam firmly.
“Well—it’s a matter of taste and fancy” sighed Mr. Orly heavily. “Chacun à son goût—shake an ass and go, as they say. One’s enough for me. I can’t think why they do it myself—sheer well to call a spade a spade sheer bestiality those French writers—don’t ye think so, eh?”
“Well no. I don’t think I can accept that as a summary of French literature.”
“Eh well, it’s beyond me. I suppose I’m not up to it. Behind the times. Not cultured enough. Not cultured enough I guess. Ready dearest?” he said addressing his wife and getting to his feet with a groan. “Miss Hens’n’s a great admirer of Emmil Zola.”
“She says some of his books are pretty, didn’t you, Miss Hens’n. It isn’t fair to judge from one book, Ro.”
“No my love no. Quite right. Quite right. I’m wrong—no doubt. Getting old and soft. Things go on too fast for me.”
“Don’t be so silly, Ro.”