“I did not say that sportsmen were fools,” she answered sharply. “I only say that the kind of man I respect is the man whose pleasures are those of the intellect—who is in the front rank among the thinkers of his age—who—”
“Reads Darwin and the German metaphysicians, I suppose. I tried Darwin to see if he would help me in my farming, but I can’t say I got very much out of him in that line. There’s more in old Virgil for an agriculturist. I’m not a reading man, you see, Miss Ransome. I find by the time I’ve read the daily papers my thirst for knowledge is pretty well satisfied. There’s such a lot of information in the London papers, and when you add the Figaro and the New York Herald, there’s not much left for a man to learn. I generally read the Quarterlies—as a duty—to discover how many dull books have enriched the world during the previous three months.”
“That’s a great deal more reading than my brother-in-law gets through. He makes a great fuss about his Times every morning; but I believe he seldom goes beyond the births, marriages, and deaths, or a report of a billiard match. He reads the Field, as a kind of religion, and Baily’s Magazine; and I think that’s all.”
“Do you like men who write books, Miss Ransome, as well as men who read them?”
Pamela crimsoned to the roots of her hair at this most innocent question. Malcolm Stuart marked that blush with much perplexity.
“When one is interested in a book one likes to know the author,” she replied, with cautious vagueness.
“Do you know many writers?”
“Not many—in fact, only one.”
“Who is he?”
“Mr. Castellani, the author of Nepenthe.”