‘Oh, but people say this last novel of Markland’s is one of his best.’
‘Best or worst, novels are all the same. Nothing but love, love, love; what silly nonsense it is! Why don’t people write about the really important things of life? Some of the French novelists do; several of Balzac’s, for instance. I have just been reading his “Cousin Pons,” a terrible book, but I enjoyed it ever so much because it was nothing like a love story. What rubbish is printed about love!’
‘I get rather tired of it sometimes,’ admitted Edith with amusement.
‘I should hope you do, indeed. What downright lies are accepted as indisputable! That about love being a woman’s whole life; who believes it really? Love is the most insignificant thing in most women’s lives. It occupies a few months, possibly a year or two, and even then I doubt if it is often the first consideration.’
Edith held her head aside, and pondered smilingly.
‘I’m sure there’s a great opportunity for some clever novelist who will never write about love at all.’
‘But then it does come into life.’
‘Yes, for a month or two, as I say. Think of the biographies of men and women; how many pages are devoted to their love affairs? Compare those books with novels which profess to be biographies, and you see how false such pictures are. Think of the very words “novel,” “romance”—what do they mean but exaggeration of one bit of life?’
‘That may be true. But why do people find the subject so interesting?’
‘Because there is so little love in real life. That’s the truth of it. Why do poor people care only for stories about the rich? The same principle.’