People Like That: A Novel

by Kate Langley Bosher

Absorbed in his salad, evidently new and to his liking, Mr. Garrott was not impressed by, or appreciative of, my attempt to follow Kitty's instructions. With any reservations of my bad taste in talking shop I would have agreed, still, something was due Kitty. "He tells me"—I refused to be ignored—"that he keeps an advance order for everything you write; buys your books as soon as they are published."

"Buys them!" With the only quick movement he had made, Mr. Garrott turned to me. "I'd like to meet him. I'm glad to know there's somebody in America who buys and reads my books. Usually those who buy don't read, and those who read don't buy. But tell me—" Again the corners of his mouth drooped, and again his spectacles were adjusted. "Why did you go in for—for living in a run-down place and meeting such odds and ends as they say you meet? You're not old enough for things of that kind. An ugly woman, uninteresting, unprovided for—she might take them up." He stared at me as if for physical explanation of unreasonable peculiarities. "You believe, I fancy—"

"That a woman is capable of deciding for herself what she wants to do."

Again Jack Peebles's near-sighted eyes blinked at me, but in his voice there was no longer chaffing. "She believes even more remarkable things than that. Believes if people, all sorts, knew one another better, understood one another better, there would be less injustice, less indifference, and greater friendship and regard. Rather an uncomfortable creed for those who don't want to know, who prefer—"

"But you don't expect all grades of people to be friends? Surely you don't expect—"

I smiled. "No, I don't expect. So far I'm only hoping all people may, some day—be friendly."

Kitty was signaling frantically with her eyes, and in obedience I again performed as requested, for the third time turned to Mr. Garrott.

"I heard a most interesting discussion the other day concerning certain present-day French writers. I wonder if you agree with Bernard Shaw that Brieux is the greatest dramatist since Moliere, or if—"

"I never agree with Bernard Shaw."

Mr. Garrott frowned, and, taking up his wine-glass, drained it. Putting it down, he again stared at me. "I don't understand you. You don't look at all as I imagined you would."