"No, thank you," said Ronnie. "That would be Paradise Lost."
"Or Paradise Regained," murmured Aubrey.
"I think not. Besides—Helen reads my books."
"Oh, I see," sneered Aubrey. "So your wife draws the line?"
"I don't know what you mean," replied Ronnie. "Falsehood, frailty, and infidelity, do not appeal to me as subjects for romance. But, if they did, I certainly should not feel free to put a line into one of my books which I should be ashamed to see my own wife reading."
"Oh, safe and excellent standard!" mocked Aubrey Treherne. "No wonder you go down with the British public."
"I think, if you don't mind," said Ronald, with some heat, "we will cease to discuss my books and my public."
"Then there is but one subject left to us," smiled Aubrey—"the Infant of Prague! Let us concentrate our attention upon this entirely congenial topic. I wonder how long this dear child has remained dumb. I have seen many fine instruments in my time, West, but I am inclined to think your 'cello is the finest I have yet come across. Do you mind if I tune it, and try the strings?"
Ronnie's pleasure and enthusiasm were easily rekindled.
"Do," he said. "I am grateful. I do not even know the required notes."