"Immensely! The place teems with life. You've just to stir it and behold a boiling pot of human interest."
"And how is the stirring done?"
"Ah, there you have me! That's the worst of metaphors. I must rid myself of the habit; it comes, I fancy, of too much Meredith on an empty head."
"Dear me! And what is Meredith?"
"It is a man that writes things."
"Like you?"
"Not like me, I hope. He writes for all time; I for an hour—literally. But don't let's talk of writing. There are greater things to do in this world. Unless one were a Meredith."
"You didn't always think so."
"No; but I've learned young, and that's a good thing. When I read Meredith I hide my face at the thought of writing anything. But you've done very well, so far, without books, if I'm to believe your own story."
"I suppose folk lived before printing was invented?"