“I believe so,” he assented. “But intentions, in this vale of tears, are not always realised, are they? Anyhow, 'A Man of Words' is not like other novels. It's peculiar.”
“Peculiar—?” she repeated.
“Of a peculiar, of an unparalleled obscurity,” he explained. “There has been no failure approaching it since What's-his-name invented printing. I hadn't supposed that seven copies of it were in circulation.”
“Really?” said the Duchessa. “A correspondent of mine in London recommended it. But—in view of its unparalleled obscurity is n't it almost equally a matter for surprise that you should know it?”
“It would be, sure enough,” consented Peter, “if it weren't that I just happen also to know the author.”
“Oh—? You know the author?” cried the Duchessa, with animation.
“Comme ma poche,” said Peter. “We were boys together.”
“Really?” said she. “What a coincidence.”
“Yes,” said he.
“And—and his book?” Her eyebrows went up, interrogative. “I expect, as you know the man, you think rather poorly of it?”