“And what do you think of Mr. Dickens?” he asked. But he did not seem very interested in the subject. He had picked up a few small stones, and was throwing them carefully into the water.
“I like him very much,” I answered; “he makes you laugh.”
“Not always?” he asked. He stopped his stone-throwing, and turned sharply towards me.
“Oh, no, not always,” I admitted; “but I like the funny bits best. I like so much where Mr. Pickwick—”
“Oh, damn Mr. Pickwick!” he said.
“Don't you like him?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, I like him well enough, or used to,” he replied; “I'm a bit tired of him, that's all. Does your mamma like Mr.—Mr. Dickens?”
“Not the funny parts,” I explained to him. “She thinks he is occasionally—”
“I know,” he interrupted, rather irritably, I thought; “a trifle vulgar.”
It surprised me that he should have guessed her exact words. “I don't think mamma has much sense of humour,” I explained to him. “Sometimes she doesn't even see papa's jokes.”