“What sort of a book?”
“The sort of book that no one ever, ever reads,” she replied. “A work of such genius that it will never, never sell! The title is—let me see!—it’s so long and learned,—quite difficult to remember.”
“Then don’t bother to think about it,” said Jack.
“Oh, but I’d like to tell you!” She considered. “Yes!” she went on. “It’s this—‘The Deterioration of Language Invariably Perceived as a Precursor to the Decadence of Civilisation.’”
“Oh, Great Scott!” and Jack fell back on the grassy bank as though suddenly knocked flat.
She laughed, merrily.
“It is heavy, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s all about things that people don’t really care for,—for instance, how language gets spoilt by slang and ungrammatical expressions when people lose the sense of rectitude and honour—”
“Yes!” nodded Jack. “When they get to the low level of allowing women to pay for their amusements!”
She made a merry little grimace.
“There, Jack! You always turn the conversation back on personalities! Dear boy, it’s bad form! You should never be personal!”