"Indeed, that is what I am apprehending, Miss St. Clair," returned Uncle Tom, this time in polished accents and with marked urbanity. "And you are doubtless aware that I shall have to be present and listen to it. Come, then, little one! If you must die, come with me into the back yard where the quartet can't find us, and I will feed you to the nice hungry bloodhounds. They've had nothing since tea."
Ewing listened, aghast. He had once gone with Ben in Durango to see "Uncle Tom's Cabin," and both of them had wept at its heartrending crisis. It embarrassed him now to hear its pathos blasphemed, embarrassed him because he felt a sort of shamed mirth. He was glad that Ben was not by.
Piersoll and his publisher still discussed literature. Layton was now setting forth the superior state of the latter-day author over those of the past.
"Those old fellows had no market—publishers were a sleepy lot. Think what could have been done with 'Paradise Lost,' illustrated by Hulston with about fifty half tones and marginal decorations, and an elegant binding, properly advertised with testimonials from clergymen and leading actresses and senators and prominent college presidents. I tell you, gentlemen," he concluded, earnestly, "this is the golden age of letters!"
This phrase unhappily reaching the big table in a moment of quiet, made an instant sensation.
"The golden age of letters!" was echoed in concert by eight men who arose solemnly and bowed to the embarrassed Layton. He tried to smile tolerantly, as if he knew a joke when he saw one. They sat down and turned to stare at him with extravagant awe, catching his eye when they could and drinking to the golden age. Piersoll grinned cheerfully at them. Ewing was puzzled.
"I like this place for its literary atmosphere," said one loudly, gazing over the head of Layton. "Don't you all just love literature?" "Oh, I simply adore it!" answered the next man. "I really can't say what I should do without books. I think they improve the mind."
Now they hitched their chairs about so that they could regard Layton more easily, though they affected to be unconscious of his presence.
"It does seem to me that literature is good to read," ventured another conservatively, "but then, I love music and flowers and the little birds."
"I should die without literature," insisted another—"it's so good and excellent. Oh, why do not more people read literature and be decent!"