Constantius. Yes, I know what you mean. I can understand that situation presenting a slightly ridiculous image; that is, if the current of the story don’t swiftly carry you past.
Pulcheria. What do you mean by the current of the story? I never read a story with less current. It is not a river; it is a series of lakes. I once read of a group of little uneven ponds resembling, from a bird’s-eye view, a looking-glass which had fallen upon the floor and broken, and was lying in fragments. That is what Daniel Deronda would look like, on a bird’s-eye view.
Theodora. Pulcheria found that comparison in a French novel. She is always reading French novels.
Constantius. Ah, there are some very good ones.
Pulcheria (perversely). I don’t know; I think there are some very poor ones.
Constantius. The comparison is not bad, at any rate. I know what you mean by Daniel Deronda lacking current. It has almost as little as Romola.
Pulcheria. Oh, Romola is unpardonably slow; it is a kind of literary tortoise.
Constantius. Yes, I know what you mean by that. But I am afraid you are not friendly to our great novelist.
Theodora. She likes Balzac and George Sand and other impure writers.
Constantius. Well, I must say I understand that.