“Literature is a profession.”
“Oh, literature—yes. Of course it is. But those miserable little criticisms he writes are not literature. Why does he not write a book, or even join a newspaper and be a journalist?”
“Perhaps he will. I am always telling him that he should. And as for position, he is a gentleman, whether he chooses to go into society or not. His father was a New Englander, I believe—but I have heard poor papa say very nice things about him—and his mother was a Winton and a cousin of Mrs. Trimm’s. There is nothing better than that, I suppose.”
“Yes—that odious Totty!” exclaimed Grace in a tone of unmeasured contempt. “She brought him here in the hope that one of us would take a fancy to him and help her poor relation out of his difficulties. Besides, she is the silliest, shallowest little woman I ever knew!”
“I daresay. I am not fond of her. But you are unjust to Mr. Wood. He is very talented, and he works very hard——”
“At what? At those wretched little paragraphs? I could write a dozen of them in an hour!”
“I could not. One has to read the books first, you know.”
“Well—say two hours, then. I am sure I could write a dozen in two hours. Such stuff, my dear! You are dazzled by his conversation. He does talk fairly well, when he pleases. I admit that.”
“I am glad you leave him something,” said Constance. “As for my marrying him, that is a very different matter. I have not the slightest idea of doing that. To be quite honest, the idea has crossed my mind that he might wish it——”
“And yet you let him come?”