“Oh, no; writes books.”
“What sort of books?—I mean, is he quite respectable?”
“Of course, or I should not have invited him. These sort of people go everywhere nowadays. By the by, have we got any of his books about the house?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll look and see. If you had let me know in time I could have ordered one from Mudie’s.”
“Well, I’ve got to go to town; I’ll make sure of it, and buy one.”
“Seems a pity to waste money. Won’t you be going anywhere near Mudie’s?”
“Looks more appreciative to have bought a copy. It will do for a birthday present for someone.”
On the other hand, the conversation may have been very different. My hostess may have said:
“Oh, I am glad he’s coming. I have been longing to meet him for years.”
She may have bought my book on the day of publication, and be reading it through for the second time. She may, by pure accident, have left it on her favourite seat beneath the window. The knowledge that insincerity is our universal garment has reduced all compliment to meaningless formula. A lady one evening at a party drew me aside. The chief guest—a famous writer—had just arrived.