“Your mother is a wise lady, Paul,” he said. “Remember her words always. In later life let them come back to you; they will guide you better than the chatter of the Clubs.”
“And what modern authors do you read?” he asked after a silence: “any of them—Thackeray, Bulwer Lytton, Dickens?”
“I have read 'The Last of the Barons,'” I told him; “I like that. And I've been to Barnet and seen the church. And some of Mr. Dickens'.”
“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?”