“Tell me,” she said, “I have so little time for reading, what has he done?”
I was on the point of replying when an inveterate wag, who had overheard her, interposed between us.
“‘The Cloister and the Hearth,’” he told her, “and ‘Adam Bede.’”
He happened to know the lady well. She has a good heart, but was ever muddle-headed. She thanked that wag with a smile, and I heard her later in the evening boring most evidently that literary lion with elongated praise of the “Cloister and the Hearth” and “Adam Bede.” They were among the few books she had ever read, and talking about them came easily to her. She told me afterwards that she had found that literary lion a charming man, but—
“Well,” she laughed, “he has got a good opinion of himself. He told me he considered both books among the finest in the English language.”
It is as well always to make a note of the author’s name. Some people never do—more particularly playgoers. A well-known dramatic author told me he once took a couple of colonial friends to a play of his own. It was after a little dinner at Kettner’s; they suggested the theatre, and he thought he would give them a treat. He did not mention to them that he was the author, and they never looked at the programme. Their faces as the play proceeded lengthened; it did not seem to be their school of comedy. At the end of the first act they sprang to their feet.
“Let’s chuck this rot,” suggested one.
“Let’s go to the Empire,” suggested the other. The well-known dramatist followed them out. He thinks the fault must have been with the dinner.
A young friend of mine—a man of good family—contracted a mésalliance: that is, he married the daughter of a Canadian farmer, a frank, amiable girl, bewitchingly pretty, with more character in her little finger than some girls possess in their whole body. I met him one day, some three months after his return to London.