"I've never read any of your novels, Mr. Garden, so I won't pretend——"
He asked her what she did read.
"Have you ever read anything by an author called Peter Westcott?"
"Westcott? Westcott?... Let me see ... Westcott?... Well now—One of the young men, isn't he?"
"Yes. He wrote a book called Reuben Hallard."
"Ah yes. I remember about Reuben Hallard—had quite a little success as a first book. He's one of your high-brow young men, all for Art and the rest of it. We all begin like that, Miss Beaminster. I was like that myself once——"
She looked at him coolly.
"Why did you give it up?"
"Simply didn't pay, you know—not a penny in it. And why should there be? People don't want to know what a young ass thinks about life if he can't tell a story. All young men think the same—green leaves, moons and stars and lots of symbols, you know—all good enough if they don't expect people to pay for it."
"I think Reuben Hallard's a fine book," she said, "and so are some of the others. After all, everyone doesn't want only a plot in a book."