“Berryman only means,” explains Washer, a certain malice in his smile, “that the author is n't one of his particular pets.”
“For God's sake, you know, don't get Berryman on his horse!” growled the little fat man suddenly.
Berryman returned his volume to the shelf and took another down. There was something almost godlike in his sarcastic absent-mindedness.
“Imagine a man writing that stuff,” he said, “if he'd ever been at Eton! What do we want to know about that sort of thing? A writer should be a sportsman and a gentleman”; and again he looked down over his chin at Shelton, as though expecting him to controvert the sentiment.
“Don't you—” began the latter.
But Berryman's attention had wandered to the wall.
“I really don't care,” said he, “to know what a woman feels when she is going to the dogs; it does n't interest me.”
The voice of Trimmer made things pleasant:
“Question of moral standards, that, and nothing more.”
He had stretched his legs like compasses,—and the way he grasped his gown-wings seemed to turn him to a pair of scales. His lowering smile embraced the room, deprecating strong expressions. “After all,” he seemed to say, “we are men of the world; we know there 's not very much in anything. This is the modern spirit; why not give it a look in?”