CHAPTER VII[ToC]
WHAT THE YEARS BROUGHT
The next morning Esther sat in Mrs. Henry Goldsmith's boudoir, filling up some invitation forms for her patroness, who often took advantage of her literary talent in this fashion. Mrs. Goldsmith herself lay back languidly upon a great easy-chair before an asbestos fire, and turned over the leaves of the new number of the Acadæum. Suddenly she uttered a little exclamation.
'What is it?' said Esther.
'They've got a review here of that Jewish novel.'
'Have they?' said Esther, glancing up eagerly. 'I'd given up looking for it.'
'You seem very interested in it,' said Mrs. Goldsmith, with a little surprise.
'Yes, I—I wanted to know what they said about it,' explained Esther quickly; 'one hears so many worthless opinions.'
'Well, I'm glad to see we were all right about it,' said Mrs. Goldsmith, whose eye had been running down the column. 'Listen here: "It is a disagreeable book at best, what might have been a powerful tragedy being disfigured by clumsy workmanship and sordid superfluous detail. The exaggerated unhealthy pessimism which the very young mistake for insight pervades the work, and there are some spiteful touches of observation which seem to point to a woman's hand. Some of the minor personages have the air of being sketched from life. The novel can scarcely be acceptable to the writer's circle. Readers, however, in search of the unusual will find new ground broken in this immature study of Jewish life." There, Esther, isn't that just what I've been saying in other words?'