We were now at the end of the room leading on to a balcony. We stepped on to it. I leaned on the railing; she stood not far off from me. The garden was not very large, but neat and clean. Now I looked down at the garden, now I turned towards Lady Modestina, which is her Christian name, exchanging some remarks about flowers and trees. Her sister now joined us coming forth from the drawing-room. Dulciana is her name. Our conversation somehow or other turned on works of fiction.
—'Do you read fiction much, baron?' asked Lady Dulciana.
—'No; not much. But I have read nearly all Beaconsfield.'
—'I understand,' said she, 'his books are always full of spirit and aspiration. Incidents d'amour are only secondary, and that suits your taste, I suppose—I mean, your countrymen in general.'
—'Just so, the majority of our works of fiction are stories of heroic characters—stories of the Alroy type, perhaps, with a little more definite morals, and something more of loyalty or patriotism.'
—'I can understand that, too, from what I have heard and seen of late,' said she.
—'But have you not in your country,' interposed Lady Modestina, 'any works of fiction solely based on romantic incidents? Western fictions are, I am afraid, too full of such.'
—'Well, we also have one kind of literature which may be called "love stories." They are mostly written in an easy style, more for the less educated portion of the public.'
—'Are they read much?' she asked.
—'Not very much,' I answered; 'with us those books do not hold a high position.'