Eben stared at her, quite at a loss as to what she was talking about.
“It sounds ... it sounds topping. What is it from?”
“I don’t quite remember.”
But it wasn’t fair, she decided. Because she happened to date from the feeling of flatness and disgust aroused in her by this sentence, read in a magazine years ago, the awakening in her of the power of distinguishing between literature and journalism, it did not follow that it was exceptionally frightful or that other people ought to react to it in the same way that she had. And yet, “gorgeous palaces,” “multitudinous, seas incarnadine”—the words themselves were beautiful enough in all conscience. Anyhow, it was not Eben’s fault; though “a regular sensualist for fine English....” Good God!
“Do you want Hee—hee—Heeweeine Melodies, or Way Down in Georgia, or Abide With Me? Arnold! Do you want Hee-wee-ween Melodies, or Way Down in Georgia, or Abide With Me? Do say!” yelled Anna from the gramophone.
“People are inclined to think that sailors don’t go in for reading, and that sort of thing, but as a matter of fact ... our Commander, for instance, has a topping library, and all really good books—history mostly.”
Rows upon rows of those volumes, the paper of which is so good, the margins so wide, but out of which, if opened, one of the illustrations is certain to fall—Lady Hamilton, or Ninon de l’Enclos, or Madame Récamier; now Teresa knew who read these books.
“Silly Billy! Silly Billy! Silly Billy!” yelled Anna and Jasper in chorus as Rory missed a straight pot on the blue; it was their way of expressing genuine friendliness to their playmate of the morning.
On and on went Eben’s voice; scratch, grate, scratch, grate, went the gramophone.
The light began to grow colder and thinner.